


Pies and Prejudice

by linoresearch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bake Off AU, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Great British Bake Off - Freeform, Hate to Love, M/M, Modern Setting, Pride & Prejudice AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 97,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linoresearch/pseuds/linoresearch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn’t even want to enter this damn competition. He was happy with his life, more or less. It might not look like much from the outside, or to a younger brother headed towards a big time law career, but it wasn’t so bad that Dean needed to scrabble around for any opportunity to make a change – particularly not one as stupid as this. He’s going to throttle Sam the next time he sees him, for getting him involved in this ridiculous Bake-Off TV show. It’s bad enough that Dean has to cook in front of people he doesn’t know; he now has to go through the humiliation of being judged on it too. Its humiliation piled on humiliation, and to make matters worse Dean has to play nice with all the other suckers involved, like that rich dick-bag Castiel Novak. God, he hates that guy, and he hates that someone so awful has such a frustratingly fine ass. Written for the Dean/Castiel Big Bang 2013</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meryton

**Author's Note:**

> About the story - This Pride and Prejudice AU is set against a background of a Bake-Off competition. The Bake-Off show described is based on the format of The Great British Bake Off, and I thought it would be nice to give a little shout out to that show and the lovely John Whaite and James Morton from season three, who are both gorgeous and gave me many shippy feelings, and ultimately helped inspired this work. All of the recipes mentioned in this story are real and many are taken from TGGBO. I would have liked to Americanize the story, but I ran out of time, so I apologise for the many mistakes and Englishness of the whole thing. I really know nothing about baking, nothing about how TV shows are made, nothing about rich people, and nothing about places in America – so please don’t hate me for all the wild speculation and silly mistakes!  
> Acknowledgements - The first and biggest thank you goes to my wonderful artist Casdasgay. Your art is just amazing and beautiful and it really helped inspire me when I was struggling to finish this fic. You’ve been amazing too. Your support and enthusiasm for this story really kept me going when I was stressed out and unwell and just wanted to give up on the whole thing. I owe you big time! Thanks also to my non-fandom Beta who we shall call ‘Bob’ because they don’t want to be named, sorry for making you read all my dreadful flowery prose (you know you love it really). Thank you also to anyone on twitter or tumblr who gave me kind words of encouragement during my regular periods of intense creative angst. And finally, thank you to the DCBB mods for all your hard work in making the DCBB a success.

**Part 1: Meryton**

The clock flashes, numbers tumble, counting down to zero in a lurid green glow. Dean’s attention is focussed, honed down to a sharp point of clarity. There is a job to do, and in this moment there is nothing more important than getting it right. There are nerves. He can feel them in the slow tremors that make their way down to his fingertips, leaving them twitchy and unreliable. It’s an annoying reaction though it’s hardly surprising. Dean’s only human, and this is a chance to change his life, to change everything. To change a future he thought was mapped out for him as surely as if it was set in stone. So the nerves are understandable and only felt because, most importantly, Dean knows he can succeed. The task is familiar. The actions are well rehearsed. A sequence of movements performed a hundred times over. All Dean has to do is trust his instincts and he can win.

He has to win.

And that, right there, is what does it. A single desperate thought that tips the scales, pushes a case of nerves over the edge, into full-on panic. A swell of adrenaline rushes through him, freezes his veins, and tightens, binding and constricting like a rope knotted across his chest, to squeeze the air from Dean’s lungs. The last thing he needs right now is some lame-ass panic attack. So he tries to push it aside, squash it down, pack it away in some creaky old corner of his brain, where it can gather dust and be forgotten, hopefully forever.

His fingers are splayed out on the pale countertop, his workspace for the duration of the competition or until he gets kicked out of it, whichever comes first. The feeling of cool acrylic against the pads of his fingers helps to ground him. He tries to concentrate on it as he wills away the surge of anxiety he will never, ever, admit to anyone. He studies the counter intensely while he catches his breath, eyes wandering the path of a hairline scratch, scored across the corner by some unknown red-coated crew member; they probably got shit from the set designer for that.

A vague memory rises to the surface of Dean’s mind, some hippy crap Sam was spouting a few days ago. Dean tends to zone out when his brother starts on with all that Californian new-age shit, but this time something stuck. He draws in a breath through his nose, holds it for a few rapid heartbeats, and then blows it back out slowly, through his mouth. He figures it’s best to try it a few more times just to be on the safe side, before getting back to work; after all, the damn pie isn’t going to make itself and Dean isn’t going to win a baking competition – however fucking lame it is – without doing any actual baking.

The moment of whatever-the-fuck-that-was ebbs away. Dean’s hands find the plastic dish where chilled cubes of butter are waiting for him, hard and icy cold, perfect for making rich golden pastry, the sort that melts in your mouth when you take the first bite.

“You can never have your fat too cold,” his mom had told him. At four years old he sat on the counter beside her, watching in awe, as she spun this miraculous thing called ‘pie’ into being. It was a very ordinary and quiet kind of magic but he had been entranced. It was one of the few clear memories Dean had left of her, and so he had taken the advice to heart, and it had served him well over the years. Who would have thought it would suddenly become so important? The idea that she’s helping him now makes him smile, as he scrapes the squares into a large glass bowl. They fall onto the mound of flour inside with a flumping noise, and push up little white clouds that resettle lazily, sinking like glitter in a just-shaken snow-globe.

He turns, putting a greasy spatula by the sink to deal with later. Dean’s a tidy cook. People always seem surprised by that for some reason. Not that many outside his family even know about this particular talent, but that’s all about to change now, isn’t it? Dean’s hip brushes against the mixing bowl as he turns back. It’s sitting a little too close to the edge and it moves. Not by much, the distance could be measured in millimetres. Just a gentle nudge and it’s sliding across the too-smooth surface (good for rolling-pins, bad for friction) and its game over.

Dean watches wide-eyed as the bowl teeters on the edge and he knows there is nothing he can do to stop it. Flour dusted cubes of fat pitch to the side, tripping and falling over one another, tumbling like a landslide as the whole thing overbalances and heads towards the floor. The bowl turns as it travels, spilling its innards onto the floor before it lands.

There’s a disaster at Dean’s feet. He stares at an exploded-star made of lumps of flour and butter. The bowl covers what didn’t escape; the glass dome making it look like a display, like an exhibit in a museum.

“Fuck,” Dean says, eyes cast down at the horror.

His voice is loud. There’s an answering chorus of gasps and hissing intakes of breath from among the other contestants. One complaint is louder than the rest. One of the older ladies mutters about “young people today” and “lack of manners.” It’s probably Betty, a steel-haired matriarch who’s pottering about at the workstation behind Dean’s. The other voices are too indistinct to recognise, either the words or the speakers, and whether they are voicing sympathy with his plight or distaste at his language, Dean can’t tell. He also doesn’t give a crap either way and to emphasise the point, as a camera closes in on him and the unfolding drama, with its lights blinking so he knows he’s being recorded, he dips his head close to the microphone pinned to his chest and says, “Fuck,” again. Slow and clear, so there’s no mistake about Dean’s feelings on the matter.

He looks at the mess. There’s white powder dusting the bottom of his jeans, and his black boots look grey and dirty, like they’re covered in cobwebs. This really isn’t what he needs on the first day of the competition, the first full day of filming, when there’s public humiliation waiting at the end of it – or _Judges’ Comments_ as the production team had blandly labelled it on the schedule. At least the judges aren’t actually in the room to see what just happened and to look on with pity, or scorn, at Dean’s carelessness.

“Jesus fucking Christ, why did I ever let Sam talk me into doing this stupid fucking show?” he grouses under his breath, only remembering about the microphone afterwards.

It hardly matters. Pam’s the head honcho around here, and for some reason obvious only to her, she’d gone all out to secure Dean’s place on the so-called cast (they were competitors really, TV show or not, this was still a competition). She wasn’t likely to throw him out for a bit of bad language and a sour attitude, even if the sound techs snitched on him for bad mouthing the show. They can edit it out later. Though if they bleeped the swear words that would be cool, or at least, as cool as you can get when you’re taking part in The Great American Bake-Off. Not that Dean gives a flying fuck what anyone he doesn’t know thinks about him. He’s never cared much for anyone’s good opinion outside of his little ragtag group of family and friends in Lawrence, and he doesn’t intend to start now, national exposure or not.

One of the red-coats approaches, brandishing a clipboard in one hand and a broom in the other, a headset perched on her dark hair. A connection to the powers-that-be, hiding out away from the heat and noise, in the comfort of the media trucks. “We think it’s best if you start over,” she says, nudging him back from the mess with the end of the broom. Another red-coat appears from nowhere with a shovel, and between them they have the floor flour free in a matter of seconds. The girl looks up at Dean when they’re done and he grumbles a sort of half-hearted apology in her direction. “Don’t worry about it,” she says breezily, flapping a hand as if it’s nothing at all and there isn’t a whole heap of money resting on the outcome of today’s bake. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened so far and it’ll make the show more exciting when it’s edited together.” She raises her eyebrows, considers for a moment. “We might have to remove some of the more colourful language but don’t worry about it. There’s plenty of time left, just carry on.”

Dean pulls a face. “I would, but that there,” he says as he points to the floor. “That was all the butter I had.” There’s a moment of doubt, a twist in his stomach at the thought that he’s lost his chance. No. This is important and he isn’t a quitter. He isn’t about to run away at the first obstacle. He’s wriggled out of much more difficult situations in the past; this is just a bake-off for fuck’s sake.

He casts about for an idea, looks down at the petite assistant and takes in the faint pink stains darkening her cheeks and the base of her throat – gotcha. Dean licks his lips. Turns his most winning smile on her, and, yahtzee! She flushes and her blush deepens. Dean’s lazy smile widens as he sees it happen, because this, yeah he knows how to do this. “I don’t suppose you could get me some more could you? I’d be really grateful if you could.” He leans his hip against the counter, crosses his arms over his ribs so that his t-shirt pulls, stretching out over his chest and arms. It has the desired effect, and the young woman – whose name he can’t quite remember, but he thinks it might start with an ‘E’ – takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly, flustered.

“Oh,” she says, “oh dear.” She looks away in distress. “I’m sorry. I... I don’t think that’s allowed.” She brings up the clipboard and peers at it closely, as if she needs reading glasses. She searches. Pages flip but the rustle of paper is drowned out by the electric whirr of the ovens in the background. Something-beginning-with-E taps the end of her pen against the clipboard in triumph, tap-tap-tap, and she quotes, “Each contestant is supplied with all ingredients, in the exact amount they request, before each challenge. It is up to the contestant to ensure they request enough supplies to cover mistakes, accidents, or any other eventuality. That’s it, that’s all it says,” she finishes sadly.

“There must be something you can do?” Dean asks and pulls a face so pathetic he’d slap himself if it wasn’t so completely necessary (and good God, he hopes the camera isn’t on him right now).

She bites her lip, leans forward to put a hand on his forearm and looks up into his face like she’s about to tell him the secret of life, the universe, and everything. “I can’t help you,” she confesses. “But I do know that some of the other contestants asked for more on their lists than they really needed.”

He grins at her in thanks. No one can resist the Winchester charm when he turns it on. She grins back and the skin on her face and neck is now almost scarlet in hue. Her head tilts to the side, pointedly, silently telling him what he needs to know, directing him towards the person who can help keep him in the game. She smiles, makes a happy satisfied noise, and walks away with a bounce in her step.

She doesn’t notice the way Dean’s smile drops off his face the moment she turns away. Something-beginning-with-E thinks she’s helped Dean out of a tough spot, but his spirits sink down into the soles of his boots, and then leak out through the holes in them to spill across the floor.

Fuck his life.

Dean slumps forward to lean both elbows on the counter and drops his chin into his hands as he stares daggers into the back of the only person who can rescue him. Of course it just had to be Castiel Novak didn’t it? Of-fucking-course it did. Because when has Dean’s life ever been easy and why should it be any different now?

Castiel Novak is one of the most unpleasant people Dean has ever had the misfortune to meet. He’s a rude, cold, selfish, asshole, and to make matters about a million times worse, one of the few people in the world who seems to be utterly immune to Dean Winchester’s charms. And now Dean has to ask him for a favour. Well, isn’t that just perfect.

Dean steals a glance at the other contestants hoping there might be another way out of his predicament. But everyone else is back at work, heads down, hands busy mixing, rolling, and trimming, lips pursed tight in concentration. The marquee is filled with the knock and clatter of plastic utensils, ceramic dishes, and metal pie-plates, the sporadic drone of electric mixers and God only knows what else. The dusty smell of flour hangs in the air. It tickles Dean’s nose and catches at the back of his throat but soon it will be joined by a better scent, the sweet tangy fragrance of cooked fruits and warm bubbling syrups.

There are kind looks from his favourite contestants-in-arms; a sympathetic smile from Jody Mills, a well-that’s-life-what-can-you-do shrug from Charlie Bradbury, and then there’s Andy “I learned to bake by making space cakes” Gallagher, who has Dean huffing out a laugh as he blinks at him blearily while he droops over the top of his rolling pin (suffering from the after effects of his too enthusiastic use of the free bar last night).

That’s it, there doesn’t seem to be any other option left in the room. There’s no way out but through, as someone somewhere said one time, and Dean’s not about to give up the chance of winning some real money, a life changing amount of money, without a fight. Suck it up Winchester, he tells himself, just get it over and done with.

Novak moves around behind an orderly workstation, unaware he’s being watched. He’s straight backed, unruffled, and completely oblivious to anything going on around him. Not as much as a twitch of his shoulders to show he noticed Dean’s accident, though it happened just a few feet behind him. Dean is still sending imaginary daggers into the stiff vertical line of Novak’s back, when he stoops to shut the oven door. Novak does it gently, properly, not shoving at it with his foot until it bounces up and into place with a satisfying slam, like Dean would. But then Castiel Novak doesn’t seem to do anything for the sake of simple enjoyment. He is all efficiency, and already has his pastry case baking-blind. Getting it ready for whatever jumped-up fancy-pants filling he’s going to ruin it with. Dean follows the action as Novak taps on the temperature dials with his stupidly long-fingered hands then pushes back his shirt sleeve to check his watch – it doesn’t look like gold or anything out of the ordinary, but Dean would place bets that it cost more than a year’s worth of his own mechanic’s wage.

Novak crouches to look through the dull smoked-glass of the oven door. The bend of his knees makes his already snug-fitting pants pull tighter. The material stretches taut over an infuriatingly fine backside and that just makes Dean even more pissed-off. It really is way too fine a thing to be wasted on someone so irredeemably crappy. Dean comforts himself with the thought of how many personal trainers it must take, how many dollars it must cost, to get someone who probably doesn’t move unless it’s to sign a cheque, into such great shape. There really isn’t much that money can’t buy is there? It’s a shame the asshole couldn’t invest it in a decent personality.

Dean takes a deep breath, steels himself for whatever insult might come back at him, and leans over his workstation. “Hey, Novak,” he calls, keeps his voice soft and friendly even as the effort sticks and clogs in his throat. Novak doesn’t move a muscle. Dean can only see a sliver of his face, but there isn’t so much as a flicker of reaction. He just carries on staring and frowning into that poor innocent oven, as if something inside there has dishonoured him, his family, and his cow. Dean’s left to study the solid dark line of his back. The white slash of his apron tied just above his hips is the only feature of note.

Dean tries again, calls a little louder this time, “Hey, Castiel.” Still there’s no reaction. He’ll try one last time. He’ll even leave the relative safety of his workspace and go over there if he has to, if that’s what it takes. Dean opens his mouth to call again, just as Novak spins around, standing as he goes. He’s fast, and remarkably graceful as he moves, probably does yoga or some other bendy-exercise-garbage that Dean wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole (though he did once spend a remarkable and enlightening weekend with a yoga instructor – but he isn’t going to think about that right now, and definitely not in connection with Castiel Novak, who he also wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole).  

Novak’s scowl remains fixed to his face, and he has a wooden spoon raised in one hand, tense and defensive, as though he’s about to hit someone with it – probably Dean. “I’m trying to concentrate, Mr Winchester, what do you want?” Novak’s voice is hushed, but it still manages to snap in the air and leave a crackling trail of annoyance behind it. He does, however, lower the not-very-terrifying-spoon-of-death, so Dean has a lucky escape there.

“Relax man,” Dean soothes, lifting his hands and spreading his fingers in what he hopes is a peaceful gesture. “I just want to know if you’ve got any butter going spare,” Dean nods towards what’s left of the mess on the floor, the ghostly grey remains of the accident.

Novak’s eyes widen at the sight and his brows twitch. He really hadn’t noticed what had happened. Jesus, what was this guy, some kind of robot? Actually that would explain a few things, including his lack of appreciation for all things Dean-related. “Had a bit of a mishap,” Dean explains and tries to keep an inoffensive smile stuck to his lips. He shoves it roughly back into place each time it starts to slip away. Novak does not need to see the disgust Dean feels at having to ask for his help, though unless he really is a fool, he must at least suspect it. “So, you know, if you could help me out that would be great.”

Castiel’s scowl drops, and his face is all but expressionless as he looks between the floor and Dean (yep, definitely a robot, are those gears Dean can hear clunking in the background?). “You should have asked for more than you needed to start off with,” Novak unhelpfully replies. “To cover anything that might go wrong. It said that in the handbook, didn’t you read it?” Somehow he manages to make it sound like he’s questioning Dean’s ability to read.

Smile fixed and probably not looking as sincere as he was trying for, Dean does his best to stay cool. “Yeah, thanks Castiel, I must have missed that part. Can you help me or not?” His face starts to warm while irritation bubbles below his skin. Stay calm Winchester, he tells himself, wait until you’ve got what you need, you can punch his smug fucking lights out later if that’s what you need to do. Dean’s fingers curl up unconsciously, and there is a tickle, a flutter of pleasure in his chest, at the idea.

“I’m not sure if...” Novak’s brow furrows, falling back into those habitual lines, and he presses an index finger to his chin while he mulls over the pros and cons of helping Dean out of this fix. Perhaps he’s calculating how it would help his own chances in the competition if Dean failed at this early stage – hard to say on the first round, no one knows who the serious contenders are yet.

There is a moment of quiet while Novak works out whatever it is he needs to work out. Dean’s nerves stir to life as he recognises, with a sinking feeling in his gut, the very real possibility that the asshole might actually refuse. Perhaps if he went round all the others, begging for scraps, he could scrounge up enough to at least attempt the pie. It would be a mishmash of fats, all warm and slippery now, from the heat that’s steadily building in the tent, the combined output of the lights overhead and the ovens below the counters.

Dean swallows, there’s a twist of something like nausea in his stomach, and an uncomfortable tightening in his throat. It’s not like he hasn’t had to beg for things before, he’s done worse, when it was necessary. But to do it now, here, in front of the cameras and for this challenge – it feels all kinds of wrong. This is his mother’s recipe. It deserves more care and attention than being thrown together from a load of mooched leftovers.

He turns back and finds Novak watching him, as close and as critical as ever. Dean’s a heartbeat away from throwing his hands up and saying what-the-fuck-ever-dude, and stomping off, when the unexpected happens. Novak nods. “I don’t like to encourage complacency,” he says, and glances at the dusty discoloured patch by Dean’s feet. “But as long as the rules allow it, I think I can help you on this occasion, yes.” He nods again in affirmation, happy with his decision.

The grin that cracks open on Dean’s face cannot be contained. He forgets himself, dizzy with relief, shakes his head and says, “Oh, man I could...” kiss you? What? Nope. That was definitely not where Dean was going with that, no way, not ever, no. “Thanks, Castiel,” he goes with instead, and hopes Novak didn’t notice the awkward stumble and redirect. “I owe you, man, seriously.” Maybe the guy isn’t quite as bad as they all thought?

The next moment, Dean’s holding a hunk of something in his hand. It’s weirdly shaped and wrapped in... is that cloth? “What the hell is this?” he asks, confused. It seemed to have materialised out of thin air, leaving Dean to question just where in the hell had Castiel been keeping it. He hadn’t even seen the guy move. Did he have a larder hidden in his damn pants-pocket or something? Because it really didn’t look like there was much room in there for anything apart from...

“It’s butter. That is what you asked for isn’t it?” The words sound irritable but Castiel’s voice doesn’t waver, it stays contained, and as flat as the roads in Illinois (yep, robot, definitely a robot).

“I don’t recognise the brand,” Dean replies, tries to act casual and put a gloss on the horrible awkwardness that’s dogged all their interactions. Part of Dean protests, begs to know why he should bother hiding the fact that he doesn’t like Novak, when Novak himself doesn’t bother to do the same in return. He has to put that aside. Right now Novak is helping, grudging though it may be, and Dean can’t risk him changing his mind.

“It’s organic, hand churned,” Castiel tells him. “I have an interest in an organic farm. It’s from there.” Dean doesn’t respond and Novak takes it as an invitation to continue. “Its butter, Dean, and it’ll work just like any other butter, brand label or not. Now if you’ve quite finished wasting my time, I really have to get back to my work. Excuse me.” Novak turns, goes back to his workstation where a pile of limes are stacked neatly, waiting for his attention (and who the hell stacks limes? How does that even work, are they glued together?).

And the mirage of Castiel being a decent human person falls away. The asshole has returned. And honestly, he’s relieved; a prickly-edged and selfish Castiel Novak he can get his head around, and laugh at or ignore as he likes. A helpful Castiel would just be weird, and incompatible with Dean’s already fixed opinion of him – one formed, in no small part, by the lingering singe of rejection, and the crash-and-burn failure of the night they first met.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

**Five weeks earlier...**

He blinked at the words with gritty work-tired eyes, trying hard to understand what he was reading.

 _‘Dear Mr Winchester,’_ it began. That was weird for a start. Mr Winchester was his Dad, well, up until a few years ago anyway. Dean was always just, Dean, for anything that mattered. Seriously this whole baking thing was bizarre enough, if they started calling everyone Mr this and Miss that, like some crusty old romance novel, he’d have to tell them it had all been some huge mistake and make a run for it.

 _‘Congratulations on being selected to take part in The Great American Bake-Off.’_ He’d have to reserve judgement on the congratulations part. Sam might be convinced this was going to be some magical way to sort out Dean’s crappy life, and solve their debt problems, but he was less than convinced by the whole thing.

_‘I would like to invite you, on behalf of Crystal Ball Productions, to join us for a meet-and-greet weekend, where you will be introduced to your fellow cast members, the celebrity judges, and receive further information about the format of the show, and the filming schedule._

_We want you to have a great time while you are involved with the show, and we would like you, and a friend, to stay with us at the Meryton Hotel in New York for a weekend, all expenses paid. We look forward to seeing you, and working together to make The Great American Bake-Off a success._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Pamela Barnes_

The paper started to crumple in his hand, and he had the mad thought that if he destroyed the evidence he could forget about the whole thing. Carry on with his regular life as if nothing had ever come along to disturb it. It might not look like much of a life from the outside, or to a younger brother headed towards a big time law career, but it wasn’t so bad that Dean needed to scrabble around for any opportunity to make a change – particularly not one as stupid as this. He made a mental note to throttle Sam, the next time he saw him, for getting him involved in this ridiculous TV stuff in the first place.

It was bad enough that Dean had to go and cook in front of people he didn’t know. On top of that, he had to go through the humiliation of being judged on it, and then broadcast on network TV so anyone anywhere in the country could witness it. It was going to be humiliation piled on humiliation, and now Dean had to go play nice with all the other poor suckers that were involved. Dean didn’t have time to be messing around with this crap. It was a tricky balancing act as it was with two jobs and a mountain of debt that wasn’t getting any smaller anytime soon – in fact it would just get bigger if he took time out to play at being someone else, someone he’s not. Sam should have known that, and Dean should have known better than to go along with it. Trust Sam to make it all sound so reasonable – him and his stupid lawyer training.

“They’ll pay you, Dean.” That had been Sam’s key argument, and he’d looked so excited and happy about it. “You’ll get paid no matter what, and just look at the prize money.” A brightly coloured advertisement was shoved under Dean’s nose. It screamed, in giant black print that looked ready to crawl off the page, that “Talented home-bakers are wanted for a brand new TV show.” Sam tapped at the page with his finger, pointing to the figure for the prize money. It stood out, garish, in big bright-red print.

Dean pushed the paper away, and ignored Sam’s grumbling protest. “Okay,” he conceded, “that’s a fair number of zero’s. But let’s be real, I’m hardly likely to win. I’m a mechanic, Sam, not a baker, and Bobby can’t afford to keep my job open while I go off chasing some stupid TV show halfway across the country. He needs someone here who can work every day.”

“Then you make sure they pay you enough up front to cover your wages,” Sam replied. “I can help you check over any contract. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they pay you more upfront than you’d make at the auto repair shop and the Roadhouse anyway. I mean it’s not exactly much.”

“Thanks for reminding me of my lowly state, Sam.” Dean said, throwing his brother a dirty look. “You’re not exactly rolling in it yourself yet. Or had you forgotten we’re still paying for those fancy schools you went to. Hey, here’s an idea, maybe you should apply and leave me out of it?”

Sam looked sheepish. “I didn’t mean...” he started to explain, to smooth over the accidental insult. Dean was touchy when it came to money. It was a side effect of a life lived never having quite enough of it, no matter how many hours he’d worked. “Dean,” Sam said. He dropped his voice low, tried to sound reasonable and reassuring. “You love baking, cooking as well. I know you pretend you don’t, but you do, and you’re good at it too.”

Dean made a derisive noise. “Well you would say that, since you’re the one that’s been forced to eat it.”

“No, Dean, you know I’m not the only one who thinks so. Bobby, the guys at the auto shop, Ellen, and Jo, and Ash... And you know Dad thought so too, even if he never said it.” Dean snorted at that. He had no idea where Sam came up with that idea. John Winchester had hardly even been around while they were growing up, preferring to stay out of the house, and away from the reminders of his dead wife. Sometimes working but often drinking. Dean could count on his fingers the number of times they sat down to eat together as a family. More to the point, John had straight up refused to eat the first time Dean had made Mary’s apple pie recipe. Long story short, Sam was talking out his ass. “We all think you’ve got talent,” said Sam, “and maybe, just maybe, this is an opportunity for you to do something with it. Look, I’m not saying you’ll definitely win, but why not have a try? Bobby’s not going to replace you if you take some time off, and if he tried, Ellen would probably shoot him.” Sam laughed.

He let his head loll onto the back of the moth-eaten couch as he thought about it. Noticing, absently, that the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling were getting worse, spreading out, growing wider and darker. He’d have to do something about that soon. Dean wasn’t one for false modesty, he was a decent cook, and his apple pie had been known to reduce a grown man to tears on occasion (though Bobby had sworn him to silence about that, on pain of death). The prize money was tempting. Too tempting for someone barely carrying the weight of all the debt loaded onto his shoulders – Sam’s school bills, the cost of Dad’s medical bills and stints in rehab – no matter how hard or how many hours Dean worked, it would take nothing short of a miracle to lift those debts from him. It was a situation Dean had learned to accept, and God, was that depressing.

“Come on then,” Dean said a moment later, grudgingly holding his hand out for the paper. “Show me again.” It really was a lot of money, enough to take a good chunk out of the debts and maybe even enough to do something else, something more pleasant. For a few years Bobby had been talking about setting up a second shop, about how he would make Dean a partner in the business, if they could find the money for it. That was the dream. A business, something Dean could spend his time and effort on, and maybe get a little something back from at the end of the day.

God help him, the money was tempting, too tempting. With only a little more prodding from Sam, Dean caved, and sold his soul for a place on a reality TV show.

“That’s great!” Sam beamed. He looked far too smug for Dean’s liking. “Because I’ve already put in an application for you.” Sam stopped smiling when he was smacked in the face with a ratty pillow a few seconds later.

The meet-and-greet invitation was printed on thick paper, so thick the thumbtack didn’t want to go through it when Dean tried to pin it to the notice-board beside his door. Apparently it was as reluctant to engage with the whole thing as Dean was. But it was too late now. The deal had been struck, the contracts signed, and this was Dean’s fate. It comforted him that he could drag Sam along with him for the weekend. His brother had got him into this, and therefore Dean considered it his brother’s duty to share some of the inevitable pain of the experience. It was only fair.

And in the end, the weekend wasn’t nearly as bad as Dean expected. Not that he was going to let Sam know that, so he made an effort to play the martyr as much as was humanly possible whenever Sam was nearby.

Dean had met Pamela “just call me Pam” Barnes – show-runner, owner of Crystal Ball Productions, and the brains behind the whole operation – during the audition process. She was just as charming, flirty, and enthusiastic as he remembered. She gestured wildly with her hands as she talked, used a frankly alarming amount of “air quotes,” and had an unnerving ability to work out just what you were thinking. She wanted the show to be a success, but seemed truly interested in the people she recruited onto the show. All while carrying an amused twinkle in her eye that belied the smooth media-slick image she presented, with her blood-red lips and sharp-cut hair. Dean could read people and if Pam’s shtick was all an act, then it was a damn good one, because it had him fooled right along with the rest of them.

The contestants were a decent bunch, on the whole. A real mixed bag of personalities, drawn from every walk of life you could imagine. Each of them had a definite “story” to tell, as Pam put it, and not one of them was naive enough to believe that they had ended up with such an interesting and diverse cast by happy chance. “This is show business,” was all Pam said with a shrug, and a tap of her pointed shoes on the hardwood floor, when Dean had asked about it. Dean had expected to be alone among a crowd of little old ladies, and it was a pleasant surprise when he found the other contestants were just regular folk – and yes, that did include some older ladies. It turned out baking was a more popular pastime than Dean had realised. Then again, how was he supposed to have known when his own skills were born out of necessity, not choice?

Shared anxiety was a good bonding agent, and after the first few cautious hours, all twelve contestants (and their plus-one guests) were getting along fine, and had started to relax. Pam, as ever, had played an ace with the location and remaining doubts or nerves were quite forgotten in light of the warm, and what Dean would call over-the-top, hospitality at the hotel. All on the production company’s dollar. Though the five-star finery was outside Dean’s comfort zone, he eventually conceded that the Meryton Hotel was pretty amazing; with its spa, and roof terrace, and amazing food, even if he wasn’t the biggest fan of the locale (too many people, in too much of a hurry, too much of the time, and wow, rude, was Dean’s judgement of New York, and he didn’t care how much Sam bitch-faced at him before he started droning on about all the culture, culture, culture).

They weren’t just there for the over-indulgence though, and over the weekend they had to attend a series of talks. Dean was handed binders filled with endless rules, page upon page of filming schedules, travel plans, and anything and everything he could possibly need to know about the shit-storm (aka show) that was rapidly approaching.

“We want this to be as easy and enjoyable for you as possible,” Pam told them, phone clasped in one hand, oversized coffee in the other, liquid sloshing dangerously at every animated word. “We’ll cover all your travel costs and only the very best accommodation will be good enough for my cast. It’ll be fun,” Pam told them, and her eyes lingered on Dean. “Think of it like a holiday. You’ll get to stay at some of the finest properties in the country.” The idea of being stuck for days at a time, in a load of creepy-ass old houses in the middle of nowhere, did not fill Dean with an overabundance of joy. The others seemed excited so he tried his best to turn his frown up-side-down and play nice. Pam kept her gaze on him, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “You might be surprised at how much fun you’ll have, before we get to the end,” she said, nodding at him as she lifted her drink to her mouth. She took a long pull, sighed dramatically, and turned her attention elsewhere, to Dean’s relief.  

There were lectures on the format of the contest by Pam’s harassed looking assistant, poor guy. Each round would consist of three challenges; a signature bake, a technical challenge, and a show-stopper bake. All of it had to be completed in a single arduous day. Each day would have a theme such as ‘breads’ or ‘cakes’ or ‘cookies.’ The judges would do their thing after each challenge, and at the end of each day one of the contestants would be named overall ‘star baker’ and another would be sent home with their tail between their legs. While Dean was in it for the prize money; they all got paid an appearance fee no matter how long they stayed in the competition. In some ways the first contestant to get the boot would be the luckiest (apart from the winner), since they wouldn’t have to spend long jumping about for the cameras.

The last item on the agenda was the introduction of the celebrity judges. The first was some English dick named Crowley “just Crowley” that Dean had never heard of. Who the hell did he think he was to only have one name? The guy wasn’t exactly Madonna. Whoever he was, it left some of the ladies tittering and flapping about, as if some rock star had just walked in. Not that Dean was above a bit of fan-girling himself. When Pam introduced Missouri Moseley as the second judge Dean could barely contain himself, inadvertently handing Sam enough ammunition for the teasing to last until Christmas. Dean didn’t care. He wanted to run over and hug the living daylights out of her. Dean had learnt to cook from Missouri’s shows and books – books that Mary Winchester had bought and never had the chance to use. On the most difficult days, when Dad hadn’t come home and Sam was hungry and upset, it had been Missouri’s calm voice and friendly face that comforted and encouraged him to carry on. Dean didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or terrified that she would be the one to taste and pass judgement on his skills.

One mystery remained. Any dead space in conversation was filled with speculation; who was the thirteenth contestant? Right from the go Pam had said there was a “baker’s dozen” of contestants. Ignoring how terrible that joke was, it meant there should have been thirteen of them. Yet only twelve people had been introduced over the two not-very-action-packed days. Though Pam was full of glossy red smiles, and ready with a wink and a hint and a “don’t you worry about it handsome,” she never told them why there was a seat unfilled. Her evasion only served to tantalise. It lent an air of intrigue, a thread of mystery for them to follow, and it lasted until the farewell cocktail party on Sunday night.

When the revelation finally came it was the biggest damp squib in the history of all the squibs that ever dampened stuff (and Dean should probably find out what a squib is before he uses that phrase ever again).

“It fits perfectly with the ethos of the show,” Pam was mid-explanation about something-or-other, when Dean arrived at the cocktail party with Sam in tow.

He waved a hello at Jody and Charlie and snagged a couple of tall glasses filled with fizzy-fruity stuff from a waiter. He handed one to Sam with a shrug. The quirk of Sam’s eyebrow, creeping up his giant forehead, was an unspoken agreement that they were not going to talk about the sparkly ‘girl-drinks’ they were holding, on pain of death – no matter how amazing they tasted (and what was that? Peach? It was frigging delicious whatever it was). Pam nodded in greeting but carried on talking, not one to be distracted mid-flow, especially when the talk was about her favourite topic “the show,” as she wiggled her fingers around the words.

“The zeitgeist right now is for simple things, old-fashioned things. People are looking to the past for a quieter more sedate kind of life-style, some way to balance out the impact of our hectic twenty-four seven lives. What we’re doing is taking advantage of that mood, of that craving for traditional skills by showcasing the best of home baking in America today.” She looked at Sam and Dean and waited for a sign they were following her before going on. “How better to evoke that nostalgia than by showcasing some of our beautiful old buildings as well? And if the arrangement is mutually beneficial” she winked, “all the better.”

“But cooking in a tent in the middle of summer...” Charlie argued, “... in Georgia? That sounds to me like a whole other kind of baking. It doesn’t sound comfortable, even if it is next to some crumbly picturesque old house. It’s making me sweat just thinking about it.” It was good to know Dean wasn’t the only one with doubts about the travelling involved – surely it would be easier for everyone to just stay put for the duration; the closer to Kansas the better as far as he was concerned. He’d never been fond of travel, and not just because he had to pop a borrowed pill or two to get through the ordeal of flying. He was a home-body at heart, happiest among familiar sights and sounds and people.

Pam laughed. “None of the places we’re going will be crumbly, Charlie, I can assure you. Most are hotels these days, and you’ll be staying in some of them. I’ll have no expense spared for my cast.” She put a reassuring hand on Charlie’s shoulder, her voice going serious. “And really, don’t worry about the marquee; it will be more like a building than a tent by the time the crew have finished with it. We’ve tested it out and it’s pretty sturdy. Crowley and Missouri helped with the design and specifications and I don’t think we can question their credentials.”   

“Okay,” Charlie nods but doesn’t sound convinced, “Still not sure about going south in the summer though.” Dean snorts a laugh at that, and she hits him hard on the arm. “Shut up, I’m being serious, Dean.”

Pam ignored Dean’s interruption in favour of giving Charlie an encouraging little pat on the shoulder. “It’ll work out great,” she said. “I just know it.” And there was so much conviction in her voice that everyone believed it must be true. “Have fun, sweeties, and I’ll see you later,” she said with a smirk and drifted off to charm the socks off the next loitering group.

“Well she’s right about the ‘spared no expense’ part,” Jody said, her eyes darting about. “If the rest of the hotels are going to be anything like this, I’ll end up spoilt, and won’t be able to go back to my boring old house.”

The party was in a private function room in part of the Meryton Hotel they hadn’t seen before. The rest of the place was swanky, as you might expect from a luxury hotel, but they had definitely saved the best for last.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit over the top?” Dean replied. The room was opulent to say the least – and to Dean’s mind it was a toss-up as to whether it managed to stay on the right side of tasteful or spilled right over into the realms of the absurd – the amount of marble and gilding on display gave him concerns about the sanity of the interior decorator. All it needed was a zoo and a sarcophagus or two, and it would be right up there in Jackson levels of weird.

“It is a bit much,” Charlie chipped in, “When I saw all the gold, I thought for a second I’d taken a wrong turn and found Smaug’s lair.”     

Sam laughed, “Let’s hope they came by all these doodads in a slightly less gruesome way, huh?”

“Nerds,” Dean said under his breath, shaking his head as he took in the surroundings. The decadence of it made his skin itch. To someone who had spent a life time worrying over money, and how to make each new penny stretch twice as far as the last, it looked like a wasteful display. It was beautiful in its way, but they might as well have just cut to the chase and papered the walls in hundred dollar bills. It kind of pissed him off.

Just like the other contestants he was impressed by the hotel and took full advantage of enjoying it. Hey, if Pam and her company were going to make money off the back of his humiliation, he had no qualms about taking everything they offered in return. He’d started to feel weirded-out by it after a while, like there was something patronising in being given this freebie holiday, like they were children to be distracted with something shiny so they wouldn’t complain.

“You’re being paranoid again,” Sam gently mocked when Dean asked him to check through the paperwork for a second time. “Money isn’t the enemy, Dean. Not everyone with it is out to get you, or to get one over on you. Pam Barnes is no megalomaniac, she knows her stuff and I really think she just wants to make a good show, not a freak-show. This isn’t The X-factor.” He was right, Dean was being paranoid. He couldn’t help it. All he knew of money was his own debts, and the way they hung over his head like a boiling cloud, threatening to break and ruin everything at any moment.

Part of Dean’s growing discomfort was more basic than that. The way some of the paying guests side-eyed the contestants, clutching their designer bags and briefcases close whenever the show folk happened to go by, as if old Mrs Lucas was about to pull a grab-and-run at the first opportunity. Then there was the flip side of it; the way the staff crept around. Always ready and waiting at your elbow to help you in every situation, even when you didn’t want them to (and Dean was perfectly capable of carrying his own bag, thank you very much). He couldn’t imagine what sort of person would want that sort of service, apart from Crowley of course, who seemed to enjoy it rather too much, the creepy fucker.

Across the room there was a gold-edged mirror that covered half the expanse of the wall. Dean’s reflection showed that he scrubbed up pretty well, though his collar, stiff and uncomfortable, rubbed against his throat. What he wouldn’t give to be wearing a good old-fashioned t-shirt.

“Make an effort,” Sam had told him. “First and last impressions are the ones that count the most.” No doubt that was something he’d been taught in lawyer school, and he shushed Dean’s arguments about how he didn’t give a crap about any of that. “You want to win don’t you?” Sam asked, serious all of a sudden.

“I thought I’d do that by, you know, baking,” Dean said and batted at Sam’s hands as he held up a nasty red tie in front of Dean’s chest.

“It’s still a show, Dean, and you need to get everyone on your side anyway you can. They aren’t going to want to hand the prize over to some scruffy grumpy asshole, this will be a popularity contest just as much as a test of your baking skills, whatever Pam says about it.”

Dean grumbled a quiet, “fine,” and fastened the top button on the tight-fitting shirt Sam had handed him, “but no ties.” Dean did not do ties. Eventually Sam got the message and threw the limp strip of cloth back into his case. Dean thought it would look better in the trash.

Among the white and gold of the function room, Dean wondered if Sam had the right idea when he’d put on a suit (much to Dean’s amusement. He hardly ever saw Sam in his other life, so Sammy in a suit would never not be hilarious). The other contestants had all made an effort, dressed in smart suits or cocktail dresses. He was annoyed for feeling that fleeting sense of self-consciousness, so instead of letting it fester, he lifted his head, winked at his reflection and let it go. He was who he was and he didn’t need to put on a disguise for anyone. The whole show could go to hell if they expected that of him. What did it matter if he didn’t own a suit or tie? He hardly needed one for work. Bobby would slap him round the head with one of his grubby trucker caps if Dean showed up at the auto shop in one, and Ellen would hit him twice as hard and laugh him all the way out the Roadhouse.

“Relax, Dean, you look fine,” said Sam, catching Dean winking at himself like an idiot.

“Damn right I do,” Dean crowed. He didn’t lack confidence in his appearance. He looked good and he knew it. No point in pretending he didn’t.

Pam was in the far corner holding court under a startlingly horrible work of art. God only knew what it was supposed to be. It looked like something Dean might find on the sidewalk outside the Roadhouse.

“I’m glad you asked...,” Pamela said, in reply to a question no one else had heard, her voice suddenly growing loud enough for everyone to hear. She nodded acknowledgements, as each little group broke off mid-conversation and turned their eyes in her direction. She kept her voice casual as though continuing her conversation rather than making an announcement. “Now, you all know we have one more cast member who wasn’t able to join us for the weekend. He’s very busy, and his work has kept him overseas until today. But I’m very pleased to tell you his assistant just called to say he’s back home and will be able to join us tonight after all.” She bounced in excitement, an amazing and dangerous feat considering her high-high heels.

“Who is it Pam?” Charlie called out.

“Yeah,” said Andy, just arrived and already holding a drink in each hand. “Can’t you just tell us? The mystery seems a bit over the top.”

“I think it’s better to wait and see,” Pam replied, dropping the pretence that the room was just overhearing a discussion instead of receiving important intel. “I know you’ll all stick to the confidentiality agreements you signed,” she said pointedly. “But better to be safe than sorry, and we don’t want any of your names appearing on those pesky social networks now do we? Not before we get the PR machine cranked up and working for us.” She put a hand on her hip and tapped her foot, looking like a teacher telling off a classroom of disruptive students. “And that means absolutely no tweeting or blogging about anyone or anything to do with the show, especially you Mrs Lucas,” she added, teasing the baffled old lady.  

Nervous anticipation filled the room as Pam stopped talking, her voice replaced by a buzz of speculation. None of it sounded very probable to Dean, and given how disproportionate Pam’s enthusiasm often was, he suspected it would come to nothing. Dean was in the process of saying as much to Jody (“tragic history, very tragic,” Pam had told him under her breath when she introduced them “the viewers are going to love her.”) when Pamela bustled back over, all broad white smiles. “My gorgeous mechanic and the lovely small-town sheriff, having a good time I hope?” Her cheeks were rosy from the champagne, eyes glittering and entirely too knowing as she grinned at them. “I just knew the two of you would get along famously, didn’t I tell you that?” she turned to Jody who was smiling tolerantly back at her.

“That you did, Pam,” Jody replied with a smile.

“Of course I did, and as you know I am never wrong. I know how to look after my ‘stars’ and how to keep them happy.” Dean smiled as Pam wiggled her fingers in the air. She was right, he’d give her that. It was an uncanny ability and no doubt useful in her line of work where predicting the changing tastes of the television-viewing public was essential. “This is a happy show after all isn’t it? Old fashioned skills, family values, competition, and a bit of human interest thrown in. It’s a winning...” she paused, and looked towards the doors which remained closed and uninteresting, as far as Dean could tell. “... formula,” she finished, at last. “And now we just need the icing on the cake,” she added in a whisper that only Dean heard.

The doors creaked in soft sighs as they opened, gilded scrolls and fleur-de-lis shining in the dimmed light. There was a moment of suspense before everyone fell silent then turned, as one, to stare. The new arrivals entered to find a room filled with gawping people, transfixed like the little green aliens from Toy Story, waiting for The Claw.

“That’s my cue,” Pam said. She threw a quick, “good luck sweeties,” in their direction and glanced at Dean on her way by. Then she was gone, swept off to meet-and-greet the ‘icing’. And an ill-tasting icing it turned out to be.

The first person to appear was a beautiful woman. Tall and elegant in a close fitting blue dress that showed off the gym-honed curves of her figure to great advantage (“body-con” Charlie muttered in appreciation. Dean had no idea what that meant, though the way she licked her lips as she said it made him think it was sex-thing). An abundance of well-styled hair tumbled in dark waves around her shoulders and down her back, it bounced as she greeted Pam with a warm hug. Her heels clacked on the wooden floor as she beckoned her companions forward and into the party, spikes sharp enough to pierce hearts.

A whistling intake of breath from Sam struck somewhere in the balance between shock and appreciation. If there was ever a time to make a smart-assed comment about a woman being out of Sam’s league this was definitely it. Dean was ready and willing to tease his brother but he didn’t get the chance. As her entourage followed, the chorus of gasps grew louder. The susurrus of hurried words increased as people whispered to each other behind their hands or looked on with astonished eyes. 

“What’s happening?” Dean asked, bemused by the reactions. Agitation spread through the room. It made the air feel odd, close, and heavy with expectation (though admittedly that might have been the heat from the two unnecessary fires burning in ornamental fireplaces on either side of the room). He was missing something here, something important, and he didn’t like it. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched as his irritation increased.

Sam started to laugh. “Oh my God, Dean,” he whispered, caught by the mood in the room. “Pam was right. This is huge.”

“What’s huge?” Dean looked back at the new arrivals. There were five people, three women and two men, each of them as elegant and well-turned out as the next. All of them, apart from the beautiful woman who was looking about with a friendly expression, looked unhappy about being there. The fact that people were unashamedly staring, as if they were a circus freak-show that had wandered in off the street, probably did not help.

“Dean, don’t you know who that is?” Sam grabbed his sleeve like an over excited kid.

“Should I?” Dean scanned the group again, double checking he wasn’t missing anything obvious, but no there was nothing. He didn’t recognise them. Though now Dean took the time to look he noticed that one of the guys was pretty damn fine as well. Jesus, where the hell did these guys come from? And could Dean go there on an extended vacation? There was a warm twist of sensation under Dean’s ribs. A bright spark of interest he hadn’t felt for anyone in a while, male or female. 

“Dean, do you never read a newspaper?” Sam’s voice was thick with disbelief. Dean could practically hear when Sam rolled his eyes in despair at his uninformed brother. “That’s Castiel Novak,” he hissed under his breath.

Dean blinked, blank faced, and uncomprehending. “And I’m supposed to know who that is because..?”

“Novak,” Sam repeated slowly, using his patented Dean’s-being-an-idiot-again voice. “As in the Novak Corporation... as in heir to the entire Novak family fortune. I think he owns a whole state.” Sam looked at Dean for some kind of recognition or response, but all he could do was shrug. Dean had no frigging clue what he was talking about. Why should he? What good would that sort of knowledge ever do Dean? Mega bucks and big companies were so far outside his experience it would be useless information. Well, up until this moment and who could ever have predicted that.

“He’s old money, Dean.” A dreamy far-away look was in Sam’s eyes, “lots and lots of very, old, money.” Sometimes Dean thought that law school had not done his little brother any favors. He half expected to hear a _ca-ching!_ and see dollar signs in Sam’s eyes.

“Which one?” Dean asked, acting nonchalant as he pretended not to check out the solemn looking guy with the serious case of bed-head – artfully unruly in the studiedly casual way that moneyed people had. Dean didn’t mind. It was begging to be ruffled and pulled about for real – Dean licked his lips. “Which one is Novak, the older one or the good looking one?”  

Sam looked away from the lady in the blue dress and frowned. “The good looking...?” Sam’s eyes went wide as Dean grinned. Sam clearly recognised that look. “Dean, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but seriously, do not go messing with this guy,” he warned. “This competition is important for you, the last thing you need is to go causing trouble with one of the most powerful people on the east coast. Pam might think the sun shines out of your ass right now, Dean, but believe me, she’ll drop you from the show in a heartbeat if you so much as look at Novak. Leave him alone it’s not worth the risk.”

Dean pressed his hand over his heart, and looked up at his gargantuan brother in mock earnestness. “I promise I will not go messing with the rich folks.” He smirked and elbowed Sam in the ribs, “unless they want to be messed with. There will that do?” Dean asked innocently. Sam just tutted and looked away.

The more Dean looked, the more he saw the obvious wealth of these people. It was evident from their glossy hair, through the cut of their clothes, and down to the shine on their shoes. They wore it like armour, their backs straight and heads lifted high into the air; acting as an invisible barrier between them and the rest of the room, cordoning them off from the poor schmucks who could only goggle in envy. The contestants shrank back as if awed by their magnificence, and Dean noticed more than one person casting sad looks at their own attempts at glamour.

Pamela was, as usual, in her element and busy being introduced to the beautiful woman’s companions.

“That’s Sarah Blake,” Jody told them as she leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s been Novak’s advisor since forever, they go almost everywhere together.”

“Are they a couple?” Sam asked. He sounded a tad disappointed but it was a reasonable assumption, and Dean was no less keen to know the answer.

“Oh no, not that I ever heard,” Jody replied. Sam brightened immediately. “I think she’s been linked with a few people over the years – I think there might even have been an engagement at some point, but no, I’m sure they’re just friends.”

Dean poked his brother in the ribs none too gently. “Seriously, Sam, she’s way out of your league,” he finally got to say.

“I’ve seen pictures of Novak in the gossip magazines before but they really didn’t do him justice.” She blushed as she spoke, a side effect of the free cocktails most likely.

“Gossip magazines, Jody?” Dean teased. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

She cuffed him soundly on the back of the head. “How do you think I know this stuff smartass? Gossip is for everyone not just for teenagers.” She nodded as she spoke, as if imparting the wisdom of ages. “And don’t begrudge me my solace,” she added. “I get little enough news or scandal of my own these days, so I have to make do with everyone else’s. Why do you think I started talking to you on the first day?” She prodded his arm and Dean flinched. She was freakishly strong. “It’s because Pam promised me you’d be good value for gossip in the future, so there.”

“Well you shouldn’t have to wait too long for that,” Sam assured her. He laughed as he turned to Dean and gave him a good natured slap on the back. His big paws made Dean stumble forward as he grumbled some choice words. Jesus, what was with all the manhandling, had someone nominated him to be the resident punching-bag for the day or something? “I’m surprised you managed to get through the weekend without any incidents,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hey, do you remember that time in the motel with the pool, when you got locked out of the room without your clothes?”

“I remember it was because you stole them, you pervert, while I was busy helping out the lovely young lady on reception,” Dean teased back.

“Now something like that would definitely be worth gossiping about,” Jody said and clapped her hands together enthusiastically. “Maybe there could be photos too,” she mused her voice softly mocking.

“Hey, you want to see me naked honey, all you got to do is ask and I’ll throw the photos in for free.” Dean winked and Jody blushed. She looked younger as she laughed.

“Who’s seeing who naked?” A polite voice asked.

Dean, Sam, Jody, Charlie, and Andy, all turned at the same moment to find themselves looking at Sarah Blake. She was even more lovely close up, and Dean was sure he heard a girlish sigh from someone (Charlie or Sam – it was anyone’s guess which). There was an amused twist to her lips, but she was otherwise unabashed at the racy tone of their words. Novak stood a step behind her, also just as lovely close up, or perhaps even more so Dean thought as he caught the flash of dark blue eyes. But there the similarity ended. Novak’s expression was closed off and cold, quite different from Sarah’s. A frown drew a line down between his eyes, it was obvious he had heard the end of their conversation, and he had not found it funny.

Pam beamed as she introduced Novak, the last of her “wonderful and talented cast.” They greeted him warmly as Pam pointed them out to him, including Sam and the other plus-ones in her round of intros. She was nothing if not thorough in her efforts to put everyone at ease, but even her warmest compliments and salutations didn’t work on Mr Castiel Novak. He remained aloof throughout and as close to silent as his manners would allow.

“Pam told us you’ve been overseas. I hope you didn’t have too far to travel today?” Jody said.

“No. Not far,” was the meagre response.

Charlie tried to coax him with something more relevant. “How long have you been baking?”

All she got in return was two clipped words, “not long.”

Andy came up with the slightly-too-personal-but-very-Andy-like, “I’m surprised you’re not too busy for something like this, big businessman like you.”

“No. I have time,” Novak replied adding a small squint of confusion to his frown for that one.

And so it went.

Even Sam’s valiant attempt to engage Novak’s interest with business news, “investment in green tech” or something else as equally dull, fell as flat as the first soufflé Dean had ever attempted (and shit, they better not be doing soufflé on the show, he sucked at them big time).

After those failed attempts, Dean couldn’t think up anything more exciting to say than a friendly, “hey, how’s it going?”

Novak looked at him for a moment like he was expecting something more. When nothing happened he nodded but the frown didn’t move or change in the slightest. Then Pam was guiding him away and on to the next unfortunate group of contestants who were about to have all their hopes for a fun celebrity encounter dashed to pieces.

“Maybe he’ll chill out a bit later on,” said Andy, breaking open the discontented silence that had fallen. “Maybe he’s just shy and needs a bit of time to relax.” Then he grinned impishly. “Maybe I should bake him one of my special cakes.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Jody.

“Aw shit, sorry, forgot you were the law.” Andy shook his head.

Dean put an arm round his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Andy, if she arrests you, I’ll get Sam on the case.”

Despite being (allegedly) the best of friends, Sarah Blake was cast from a very different mould to Castiel Novak. They couldn’t have been more opposite in character. She was attentive, charming, and chatted casually with the other guests long after Castiel Novak had beat a hasty retreat back to his friends. The glamorous group occupied a prime position close to one of the ornamental fireplaces, from where they took every opportunity to cast disgruntled and dissatisfied looks at everything and everyone – it was quite a skill to look so thoroughly miserable in the middle of a party. Dean couldn’t help wondering if it had taken a lot of practise to perfect.

“They’re Sarah’s sisters,” Sam informed Dean nodding towards the two women currently failing to engage Novak in conversation. “The one with dark hair is called Meg, and the other is Hester – she prefers to be called Mrs Hurst, the other guy is her husband.” Sam had managed to trap Sarah in conversation for more than quarter of an hour. Dean had considered launching a rescue mission, but Jody stopped him with a hand on his arm, pointing out that Sarah didn’t seem to mind. She was right too, judging by Sarah’s smiles and the way she absently twisted her hair around her fingertips. Dean knew the tells. They’d been directed at him so often he could read them as if they’d been painted in letters ten feet tall.

The sisters talked to each other or to Novak; not that he gave them much more attention than anyone else in the room, despite their determined efforts to engage him. There didn’t seem to be any snide observation worth making that wasn’t made to Novak first and foremost. It was fascinating how they hung on to every response they pulled from him, triumph glinting in their beady little eyes, at each hard won word. You had to give them credit for persistence.

The brother-in-law was an unpleasant kind of guy. He got great enjoyment from running the female members of staff ragged. Dean watched them darting back and forth, from the bar, to the kitchen, to the party, and back again, catering to his every whim. They never seemed fast enough for his liking. Mr Hurst found it hilarious to send them scurrying, with frightened eyes, in fear for their jobs. He was a total dick. Dean had to force himself to look away or risk stepping in and causing a scene.

“He looks lonely,” Jody said, out of nowhere. Dean had to follow the direction of her gaze to see what she was talking about.

It turned out to be Castiel Novak, who in a rare moment had been left to fend for himself without the eager assistance of the ugly-sisters (they really weren’t ugly, it had to be said, but the name just fitted them so well that Dean couldn’t help using it).

“You should go and talk to him,” Jody smiled. “Handsome face like yours could cheer anyone up.” She snagged a couple of glasses of a champagne-cocktail from a passing waiter and handed Dean the drinks. “Take these, it might help him relax.”

“I don’t know, Jody.” Dean replied. “He looks more angry than lonely to me, doesn’t look much like he wants to talk to anyone.” The guy had a handsome face, for sure, but there was something off about him. Something that made Dean hesitate when he was normally all about jumping in feet first. It was probably something to do the money and a natural aversion to the blind privilege that came with it.

Jody flapped a dismissive hand at him waving Dean’s objections away. “Maybe he’s just shy?” she countered. “And anyway you’re not just anyone are you? You’re Pam’s pin-up, the working guy with a heart of gold,” she teased. He squirmed under the praise and snorted at the ‘heart of gold’ crap he knew Pam had been spreading about. He wasn’t anything special; if anything he was the opposite of special. “Everyone wants to talk to you; you’re the most handsome man in the room. Well...” she drawled before she added, with a nod towards Novak, “...apart from him perhaps.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t be so handsome if he wasn’t so rich?” Dean snarked right back. “I’ll bet those millions can buy a lot of nose jobs and hair plugs.”

“Millions?” Jody goggled. “You really don’t read the papers do you?” He shrugged. She put her mouth close to his ear and whispered. “His family’s fortune is in the billions, Dean. Multiple billions if you count the company’s value as well.”

“Shit,” said Dean. “Forget the hair-plugs; with that kind of money you could probably get a full body transplant or something.”

He considered it for a moment. He didn’t give a shit about the money. If anything it was a negative in Dean’s book, but the guy was attractive and no one could say Dean Winchester wasn’t up for a challenge.

“Does he like guys then?” he asked eventually. “Have your gossip magazines told you that?”

Jody looked pleased, or maybe just drunk, and she did a weird little shoulder dance of joy at Dean’s change of heart. “I have absolutely no idea,” she said. “But you know, I’m only suggesting you go talk to him, Dean. I’m not telling you to jump his bones right here and now. And anyway...”, she giggled looking impish, fine lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I think Pam would murder you if you did something as juicy as that without the cameras rolling.”

Dean let his gaze drift back to Novak. He was sitting completely still, statue-like, save for the telltale twitch of his fingers which bounced up and down against his thigh in agitation. The guy really did look pathetic, all alone, while people sneaked peeks at him from every corner of the room and gossiped about what a disappointment he’d turned out to be.

“Maybe you should go and speak to him yourself, Jody?” Dean grinned. “You’re a fine looking woman, maybe you could cheer him up, and he might like you more than me.” He meant it but it was also a ploy. A last chance to get out of something he knew, deep down, was stupid – but then Dean was full of stupid ideas, as Sam reminded him daily.

She blushed and shushed him, embarrassed by the attention. “Flatterer,” she said giving him a light slap. “I don’t think it would do me much good to think things like that,” she said tartly. “At my age it’s only likely to end in disappointment.”

“Don’t put yourself down, Jody. I would make a play for you myself if you’d shown the slightest interest.” Dean pressed a kiss to the top of her head to emphasise the point.

“Don’t you try and sweet-talk me, Dean Winchester, and don’t change the subject.” She crossed her arms, lifted her head, and suddenly Dean was aware that he was sassing a sheriff (albeit one that was wearing a cocktail dress and not a uniform). “Now get going, and cheer that boy up.” She nodded in the direction of Novak, who seemed to be doing a first rate impression of an item of furniture.

Novak was hot; there was no denying it, even if it was in a cool and aloof way. And hell, the drinks were flowing freely (literally). The buzz of excitement was building again, whether that was due to a renewed enthusiasm for the show or just plain old fashioned drunkenness was anyone’s guess, and it vibrated in the atmosphere like an electric charge. They were stuck here for one last night, and so, Dean thought, why not make the most of it? Maybe this Novak guy just needed someone to ruffle his feathers, and Dean was a charitable fellow. Why the heck not?

Decision made, Dean gave Jody a hopeful look, pasted on his most charming smile, one that flashed just the right amount of teeth, and sauntered over. He didn’t plan his approach. He’d never needed to before, and Dean had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth until he opened it, and... "So what's a guy like you doing in a show like this?” came out. Dean winced. Jesus Christ that was a bad line. Definitely not up to his usual standard. It must be the alcohol; he’d never had champagne before – maybe the bubbles made it stronger? He shook his head in surprise and tried to get rid of the sudden prickle of heat in his face.

"Excuse me?" Novak turned slowly in his seat, and tilted his head back to look up at Dean through eyes drawn tight, like little commas.

Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Relax man it was just a joke; just a very bad joke. But seriously, you look like you'd rather be anywhere but here right now so..."

"No,” Novak interrupted. The word was sudden, firmly spoken, and it made Dean lose his train of thought. He opened his mouth, but the words disintegrated on his tongue before he could push them out. “I'm perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern." Novak turned away, his eyes fixing on the fireplace at his side, where blue flames flickered pointlessly among the coals.

Novak’s tone was not so much offensive as indifferent. It wasn’t a reaction Dean was used to, and it needled at him to be dismissed so casually. Instead of turning on his heels like most people would, and with hindsight like he should have, Dean felt a perverse delight in slowly and deliberately sitting down next to Novak, just to find out what he would do.

What he did was freeze. Dean held out one of the cocktails putting the fluted glass as close as possible to Novak’s face. “You want one of these? I don’t know much about wine and fancy stuff like that, but this is pretty good.” He waggled the drink in the air and Novak jerked his head back to frown at Dean and the proffered glass. Looking mildly confused he accepted the drink. Dean considered it something of a triumph and raised his cocktail in friendly camaraderie, only for Novak to ignore him and put his own down on a table nearby, untasted.

“Have we been introduced?” Novak asked, giving Dean his full attention in the form of a deep-blue glare. “I don’t recall. My name is Castiel Novak, and you are?"

“Dean,” he said, responding on auto-pilot, while he tried and failed to work out if that was supposed to be a joke. If not then it must be an insult. They’d been introduced less than two hours ago. There was no way he could have forgotten. Was there?

Novak waited with a hand outstretched. Dean took it for a firm but perfunctory handshake. Novak’s skin was warm, really warm. He dropped Dean’s hand as fast as possible as if it stung to touch him. Novak sighed, with a puff of warm air, as if he was resigned to being always surrounded by idiots.

“And what is your family name, Dean?” He asked, managing to sound both irritated and bored.

“Winchester,” Dean replied, thrown by the solemnity of the question. “My name’s Dean Winchester.” He took a deep breath, and decided to press on, choosing to ignore the deepening crease between Novak’s brows.

“So how did you get involved with the show, Castiel? You don’t look like your average baker; a banker maybe, but not a baker,” Dean laughed. Castiel did not.

“And what exactly do you think a baker should look like, Mr Winchester?” Castiel asked. His voice was a low vibration between them; each word spoken with careful precision rang in Dean’s ears like a bell.

Dean was lost, wandering in unknown territory with no sign of rescue on the horizon. “I don’t know,” he admitted as he struggled to find familiar ground. “It was a joke. I suppose I just meant you know...” Dean tipped his head to the side and let his gaze slip down over Novak’s body, before lifting it again to meet his eyes. “You don’t exactly look like you eat a lot of cake.”

Novak did not react. There was no hint as to whether the compliment had hit home, or missed its target by a country-mile. Novak gave Dean a squinting look of appraisal and Dean felt pinned, exposed somehow.

“Neither do you,” Novak said after an uncomfortably long pause. Was Novak returning the compliment? Dean could not figure it out. There was nothing in Novak’s empty look, nothing in his voice or the oddly formal and dusty delivery, to give him a clue.

“Well,” Dean smirked. Fuck it he thought, in for a penny in for a pound. “I do like putting things in my mouth but the trick is... I only swallow if it’s really good.” When in doubt go for a bad innuendo, that was Dean’s motto – actually he didn’t have a motto, and if he did that still wouldn’t be it.

There was silence. Novak didn’t move and Dean couldn’t breathe. The space between stretched out, into a vast emptiness where tumbleweeds rolled and eagles screamed their loneliness in cloudless skies. Well done Dean.

“I should go and find my friends,” was all Novak had to say. He stood up quickly, a knee knocking against Dean’s thigh in his haste to get away. There was a hard edged politeness in Novak’s voice when he spoke again, his displeasure betrayed only by the clench of his fingers as they curled into loose fists at his side. “Good luck in the competition, Mr Winchester,” he said keeping his eyes averted. He walked away, dragging the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon with him – Dean had wondered where that was coming from. The drink Dean had given him was left untouched and forgotten on the table. He swiped it and gulped it down, even though the bubbles tickled his throat and made him cough. Whether it was a weak revenge for the rejection, or to cover up the suspicion of embarrassment in his heated cheeks, Dean couldn’t say.   

Getting the brush-off was not a common occurrence in the world of Dean Winchester, and he sat there for a minute or two while it sank in. Screw Castiel Novak, or don’t screw him, whatever; it was Novak’s loss. Dean wasn’t desperate for anyone’s attention or approval, least of all someone who could barely stoop low enough to talk to the ordinary folk. He’d been willing to give Novak the benefit of the doubt, judge him on his own merit, but clearly he was just another rich asshole doing exactly what he wanted without a thought for anything else. As the idea took hold it soothed the burn of Dean’s wounded pride.

“That looked like it didn’t go too well, sorry, Dean.” Jody’s face was a picture of guilt. “I shouldn’t have been meddling like that. I am really sorry.”  

He shrugged it off. “Nah, its fine. I’m a big boy I don’t need to blame anyone else for my bad decisions.”

“So, Castiel? Nice crust, shame about the filling, huh?” The joke was half hearted. “I’m sure he’ll realise he’s made a mistake,” she said, offering comfort Dean did not need. “And when he does, just imagine how much fun you’ll have shooting him down.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Dean.” Charlie joined the conversation; apparently all his friends had seen his epic fail. Great, that was just great. At least Sam had wandered off somewhere, so Dean didn’t have to hear his take on it as well. “Novak has already pissed off nearly everyone. I was over there making nice with the cocoon crowd.” She waved a hand towards a gaggle of grannies. “And they were pretty darn fierce about how rude he was. He flat out refused to answer their questions, then walked off without saying a word. They’ve decided they aren’t going to talk to him again, not even to give him advice during the competition.”

“And that there’s fighting talk,” Andy added, “coming from the golden oldies.”

“We don’t need to worry about him.” Charlie hooked one arm round Dean’s shoulders and the other around Jody’s and pulled them in for a good hard squeeze. “So what if he thinks he’s too good for the likes of us, we don’t need him.”

Andy looked annoyed at being left out of the huddle, and grumbled under his breath, until Jody grabbed his arm and pulled him in to join what was rapidly becoming a soppy sports-movie style group-hug.

“We better stop this or people will talk,” Andy said wiggling his eyebrows as they disengaged and moved apart. “I heard that Pam just got Novak on the show for the ratings, and...” Andy’s eyes moved from right to left and back again, checking to make sure no one else was listening, in the most exaggerated and obvious way possible. “...don’t quote me on this,” he said, “but I also heard that Novak didn’t audition, so no one on the crew knows if he can even cook. They just had to take his word for it.”

“Oh, that could be bad.” Charlie’s eyes shone impishly beneath her red bangs, “total bake-fail.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jody said, but a small crease of concern wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t suppose he has much reason to cook for himself. Rich people have personal chefs that travel with them don’t they? Maybe he’ll be off the show quickly.” She sounded relived at the idea.

Andy scoffed. “I don’t think anyone will be sorry if he makes a total ass of himself. Actually I’m looking forward to it now.”

“However long he sticks around for,” Charlie said, looking at Dean with sympathy. “If... no, when he realises what a catch you are and comes looking for a hook-up, just give him a look like ‘whatever dude’,” she said, holding up a hand like a stop sign. “Then walk away, don’t say a word more.”

Dean smiled at their efforts to cheer him up, but the slight was imaginary and the reassurances not needed. Dean didn’t care about Castiel Novak and he was equally sure that Castiel Novak didn’t care about him. As the smart of the initial rejection faded, Dean began to feel relieved, like he’d had a lucky escape.

“Thanks guys,” Dean said, and meant it; they really were only trying to help. “But don’t worry; I’m pretty sure I can promise you I’ll never speak to Novak again.”  

“It’s a shame though,” Jody said. “It would make things much easier for Sam if you and Novak could get along.”

“Huh? What’s it got to do with Sam?” Dean asked.

With a nod Jody directed Dean’s attention towards an adjoining room. The door was ajar, just a crack, just enough to see inside.  “Look,” she said, and he did as he was told.

Sam was sitting close to Sarah Blake, very close. Their heads dipped towards each other, bodies leaning, curving in and mirroring one another. Shy smiles decorated their faces, and he could hear gentle laugher, if not the words that caused it. Dean watched, just for a moment, and even from a distance he could see there were stars in Sam’s eyes.

“It’s so cute.” There was a faraway look in Charlie’s eyes. “And that girl is so very fine,” she sighed.

Andy murmured his agreement. “Better hope Novak doesn’t see,” he added. “I doubt he’d approve of his bestest friend talking to a peasant.”

Charlie choked on a mouthful of her cocktail (whatever the hell that was – it was blue and green and looked like every witches brew Dean had imagined as a kid). “He’s hardly a peasant. Dean, isn’t your brother a lawyer?”

“Sure is.” Dean’s chest filled with the usual burst of pride. “Just finished law school a few months back. He’s working while he waits to take the bar exam.”

“Most lawyers do pretty well for themselves.” Charlie had a point. “So I don’t think he quite qualifies as a peasant. I don’t think Novak will be so revolted by the idea.”

Sam already had some well-to-do friends and had always fitted easily into that world. It was a world that Dean would never understand; where people didn’t need to scrub dirt from under their fingernails at the end of the day. Money could be dirty but it was a different kind of dirt, the sort that left clean hands but blackened the soul. Sam and Sarah might not be the biggest disaster of all time – maybe just a small-scale one, localised, like a burst water-main rather than a biblical flood.

The through-the-door peep show was abruptly cancelled when Sam looked over his shoulder to discover he had acquired his very own cheer squad. He walked over with a serious case of stop-being-an-f’ing-creeper-Dean face, and closed the door without a word. Nice one Sammy, Dean thought and left him to it.

Novak and Sarah’s not-so-lovely sisters kept to themselves for the rest of the night. They took over a small conservatory – romantically lit with dozens of flickering lights or it had been, until Novak’s group complained about the dim light and the smell of melted wax – and they stayed there, ignored by everyone except those with enough fortitude (or fortune) to brave the icy stares and cold condescension of their clique. Pam was unfazed. No surprise there. And Crowley was apparently deemed suitable company. He turned up late. Stayed in the main function room just long enough to soak up all the flattery he could bear (and he could bear quite a lot). Then disappeared into the conservatory where, Dean was reliably informed, he talked the ear off an exceedingly unimpressed Castiel.  

Guests started to drift away as the night wore on; tired from the weekend and the cocktails, they went in search of their beds. Pam did a final round, thanking everyone for being there, wishing them well for the competition, and making grand predictions about the success of the show. Each farewell punctuated with air kisses and affectionate hugs. Sam was still missing-in-action when Dean and his friends relocated to the hotel bar, taking a table tucked into one corner while they indulged in a nightcap.

Jody, Charlie, and even Andy, soon admitted defeat and stumbled back to their rooms, leaving Dean to wait for Sam alone. Even Pam finally turned in for the night; looking at him, as she passed by, with a strange apologetic expression, then kissing the tips of her fingers and wiggling them at him in a silent farewell.

Dean swirled the liquid in his glass, it clung and patterned down the sides of the tumbler before settling. Sixteen year old Lagavulin, two fingers, straight-up; now that was something he could get used to.  A quality whiskey for once, peaty and fierce, nothing like the gut-rot Bobby kept in his office for birthdays and emergencies.

He was just beginning to consider the possibility that Sam had slipped past him, in some cunning plan to escape Dean’s jokes about his new lady-friend, when he noticed the voices. Warm, sleepy, and skirting along the edge of drunkenness as he was, the sounds at first were indistinct, merged into the bustle of activity as the hotel staff cleared away evidence of the evening’s festivities.

“... hardly spoke three words to anyone.”

It was the increase in volume that finally broke through Dean’s reverie. He could just about make out the shapes of two people through a stained-glass door that had been propped open, by some helpful person, in an effort to speed the to-and-fro of quick footed workers. The open door partially concealed Dean’s table, sectioned it off, forming a barrier between him and the rest of the bar. The people talking would have no idea Dean was there and privy to every word they said.

It was none of Dean’s business. He could have ignored it. He should have ignored it. The instinct for caution came too late; he’d recognised Sarah’s voice, and it wasn’t exactly a huge leap to figure out who her partner was.

“That’s not true.” Castiel Novak’s voice rumbled.

“Oh really, Castiel?” Beyond the coloured glass Sarah raised her hand to rest on her hip, elbow angled out and as pointed as her words. Her pose shouted ‘pissed-off’ louder than her voice ever could. “So not including Meg and Hester, who exactly did you do all this talking to? Who are these people you’ve been charming and chatting-up? Give me names Castiel, names, or I won’t believe you.”

“I don’t need to justify myself to you or anyone else.” Dean could almost feel the ice in Novak’s voice through the door; he half expected to see the spider web pattern of frost beginning to creep over the glass, or see his breath cloud the air as the temperature plummeted.

“Ah-ha! I knew it.” Sarah’s retort was triumphant in the silence that followed.

“I talked to Pam.”

“Pam doesn’t count. She was hosting this shindig and she talks to everyone.” Extra kudos points to the lady for using the word ‘shindig.’

“Well there’s Crowley, I talked to him for a while.” He didn’t sound happy about it, but Dean hadn’t heard him sound happy, period, so who knew what Castiel Novak was feeling. Perhaps he was turning cartwheels on the inside.

“Not that dreadful little man,” Sarah replied, and made an unpleasant gagging noise for emphasis. “I’ll bet he only talked about business. You know he’s been haranguing me about a deal on a new product line. No. Sorry, Castiel, but that doesn’t count at all. Name one other person that you met tonight?” She challenged.

Novak made no response.

Dean felt a swooping sensation in his stomach. As he realised he might be about to overhear something he’d rather not know, from someone he was, potentially, going to have to play nice with for the next few months. He fidgeted in his seat, made uncomfortable by the whole sorry situation. It wasn’t like he’d snuck up to listen on purpose though was it, and to stand up and make his presence known now, well that was just going to be all kinds of awkward.

“Oh, Castiel,” she sounded frustrated, like this was an old conversation, the same old ground being trodden yet again. “Can’t you ever relax? Even just a tiny little bit? This was supposed to be fun wasn’t it? I don’t understand why you can’t give people a chance; you might be pleasantly surprised if you do.”

Novak’s near growl of disapproval sent a shiver skittering over Dean’s skin (and what the hell was that about?).

“Give people a chance to what?” he asked.

“A chance to get to know you like your friends do,” she said, her voice soft as she reached out to squeeze her fingers around Castiel’s hand.

“You know perfectly well that I hate these sorts of events,” he grumbled. “It’s nothing but forced small-talk, false compliments, and people whispering about you behind your back like bad mannered children.” His voice sounded so annoyed it was funny, like he was an eighty-year-old guy pissed off at the world at large. “I’m tired Sarah,” Novak went on. “Just let me be and go back to your friend; you’re wasting your time with me.”

“He’s lovely isn’t he?” She gushed. “He’s just finished law school and he’s working at a small firm in L.A. I think he could go far.”

“Well I’m glad you’re having fun, Sarah,” said Novak. To Dean’s ears the words lacked any kind of sincerity. Nice way to treat your best friend. “But I beg you; please stop harassing me about my social-life.”

“What social life, Castiel? Please enlighten me as to when you’ve been doing all this socialising without me noticing.”

There was an exasperated sigh. “There’s nothing you can do about it tonight is there,” he said. His voice getting harder, louder, the more Sarah pressed the point. “Your sisters have left, I’m tired, and you know it would have been a punishment for me to talk to any other person in that room.”

Unseen, Dean shook his head and curled his lip into a sneer. Wow that was just... wow. With that little speech Mr Castiel Novak had moved himself from the “bit of a douchbag” category, right past “arrogant asshat,” and straight into “total asshole” territory. No matter how dreamy-blue his eyes were, how kicking his body might be under those tailored clothes, or how big his bank balance was, underneath it all the guy was just another rich asshole and ugly as sin.

“Good God, Castiel,” Sarah cried. “I wouldn’t be as critical as you for anything in the world. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you. I never met so many pleasant people in my life and if you just tried to talk to some of them, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“You were talking to the only half-intelligent person in the room.” It was a weirdly insulting compliment to Sam and spoke thick dusty volumes about Novak’s opinion of the rest of the Bake-Off gang. “He showed good taste and ambition in singling you out, if nothing else,” he conceded.

“Grudging praise if ever I heard it.” She was offended, her words clipped and short. “If only everyone could find such favour with you,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. “What about Sam’s brother?” She asked out of the blue.

Dean froze with his glass raised half-way to his lips. He didn’t care to hear Novak’s opinion. He should have made himself scarce when he’d first thought of it but the opportunity for escape was long gone.

“I saw you talking to him, to Dean? He seems like a great guy from what Sam told me. Handsome too which a man ought to be if he possibly can, and he’s single...” The way she said it, lingering suggestively on the last few words, was enough to put to bed any questions about whether Novak liked guys or not. It was way too late for Dean to give a crap. What a waste.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” was the reply. Dean nearly choked on a mouthful of liquor. Was Novak stoned or something? How many times did they have to be introduced before he remembered Dean’s name – it wasn’t even a hard name and he’d managed to remember Sam’s.

“Then I think you need to pay better attention,” Sarah chastened. “Dean is Sam’s older brother, Dean Winchester – he’s one of the contestants – and I saw you talking to him, Castiel, don’t even bother trying to deny it.”

There was an audible sigh from behind the patterned glass. “Sarah, I’m here to take part in a competition. You said it would be good for me to take part and good PR for the company. I’m not here to give my attention, or anything else,” he said pointedly, “to some ignorant foul-mouthed hustler who’s just out to make a quick buck, and who we all know is only here because he has a pretty face and Pam thinks his ass will look good on camera in a pair of tight jeans. She as good as told me that herself.”

Dean huffed in surprise. He could believe Novak’s bad opinion of him, however uncalled for, but Pam too..?

“I doubt she told you anything of the sort,” Sarah protested, “and stop being melodramatic, Castiel.” Dean wanted to kiss her, but he’d leave Sam to do that, in the mean time he’d take her word over Novak’s on pretty much anything.

“Please leave me alone, Sarah, this isn’t achieving anything,” he sounded so put upon; Dean might have felt sorry for him in any other situation.

There was muttering. Something along the lines of, “I give up,” and “please yourself then,” and Sarah disappeared from behind the stained glass as she walked away.

After a moment Novak also moved; heading into the bar and straight for Dean’s table. Dean deliberately looked up taking a perverse pleasure in tracking the exact moment Novak realised he was there. Novak’s step faltered. Surprise flickered across his face chased by the tiniest hint of embarrassment. Novak’s jaw tightened as he gave Dean an imperious stare. It was a look that challenged, as if to say that somehow, Dean was the one in the wrong.

And, because Dean found it entirely too easy to be a smug ass when the occasion called for it, he raised his glass to Novak in salute and downed the rest of his drink in one go. He stood, turned to leave and made damn sure to bump into Castiel’s shoulder, non too gently, on his way out.

Castiel said nothing. He just stood there, glowering and ridiculous, and Dean laughed, loud and unashamed, all the way back to his room. 

Castiel Novak was an unbelievable asshole.        

 

*** * * * * * ***

**Right now...**

“Come on people, chop-chop.” Crowley yells from the doorway.

It brings Dean back into the moment with a jolt. Crowley claps his hands together, once, twice, three times. It’s loud, and surprising, and some of the contestants flinch at the sound. Around the room eyes snap up and look to the source of the commotion, shocked out of their baking-induced stupors.

“You’re on the clock,” he shouts and follows it with a sneer. “Don’t stand around navel gazing. Get working on those pies, and put some energy into it, we’ve got a show to sell.”

He disappears through a door; a wiggling-wave of his fingers trails behind, leaving an anxious bunch of competitors in his wake. Typical Crowley; wind them up and let them go, then wait and see what happens. Every reality show needs a villain. A professional level bad-guy to pick on defenceless members of the public who dare put themselves forward – and Crowley is a real Disney-style villain, ready at the drop of a hat to make the sweetest old lady cry at the hint of a ‘soggy bottom’ on a bake. At least Missouri was there to counteract Crowley’s posturing. She was no push-over, but her comments were constructive, not cruel, and she gave praise where it was due.

Dean looks down at the bulbous lump of fat growing slippery in his hand. It’s still cool from the refrigerator, which is a bonus, but he has no idea what the overpriced crap will taste like in his pie – though he, the judges, and, if Pam’s predictions are anything to go by, a large slice of the viewing public, will find out soon enough.

Movement in the corner of Dean’s eye grabs his attention as he prepares to knuckle down again and get this bake underway. He catches a flash of blue as Novak glances at Dean over his shoulder, his face blank but his eyes hard like stones.  If looks could kill, Dean would be six-feet under right now. It falls quiet in the marquee and Novak’s tut of disapproval as he turns away is clear. Whatever dude, Dean’s grateful for the help, that doesn’t mean he has to like the guy for it.

Two minutes later and Dean is too busy, too engrossed, in the creation of pie to worry about anything else. The whole butter fiasco is forgotten. It goes better than expected and Dean pulls a more-or-less, perfectly formed, golden crusted apple-pie from the oven. Just in time as the clock at the front of the tent counts down the last few seconds to zero. It smells like sugary-heaven and, as it turns out, tastes divine.

“Honey you better take this away from me right now before I eat more than I should,” Missouri says, all smiles. She wipes crumbs from her lips with the folded square of a white napkin. “It’s very good, very good indeed.” Dean lets out a heavy breath, one he hadn’t realised he was holding, and thanks her for the compliment. “It’s nothing of the kind, honey. I don’t say a thing unless I mean it and this,” she says gesturing to what’s left of Dean’s pie after Crowley all but autopsied it seeking, and failing, to find something to criticise. “This is one of the best things I’ve tasted in months. It’s simple and honest and I like that.” She cocks her head to the side and examines his face as if looking for something. Then hums gently and nods when she apparently finds it. “You cook from the heart young man. Keep this up and we’ll see you go a long way in this competition.”

“It’s good for what it is,” Crowley starts, picking up the instant Missouri stops speaking. “Good bake,” he grudgingly admits, upending a slice and taping his fingers against the base. “The filling tastes good. But, Dean, don’t you think plain old apple-pie is little on the dull side for the final bake of the day? This is supposed to be a showstopper,” he complains. “A celebration of the best of baking. You’re supposed to wow us. How does this show off your skills, Dean? Missouri’s right, looks like you’ve got some natural ability, but you’re going to have to up your game if you want to be a serious contender in this competition.”

Dean nods a bland acknowledgement. He knows the cameras are waiting to capture his reaction so he tries to stay blank-faced, as still as possible, as if he’s doing an impression of Castiel. Then his moment in the judges’ spotlight ends and they move on to the next competitor. Dean breathes a sigh of relief as the cameras roll by and takes the opportunity to scratch vigorously at his nose; the irritating side effect of so much flour floating in the oven-warmed air. He’ll be able to escape back to Lawrence in a few hours. Get back to the real world. He can’t wait. He needs the feel of engine grease on his hands instead of globs of batter.  He needs to feel normal. The contest is a hope, a wish with no more substance than a puff of air, and he needs solid ground beneath his feet in case it all comes to nothing.

“Now this, this is something special,” Crowley crows as he stops in front of Novak and his fancy key lime and ginger pie. It’s perfect, apparently, and Crowley goes into such ecstasies Dean wonders if the footage is going to be suitable for network TV – or if they should all leave so Crowley can have some alone time with the “best thing he’s had in his mouth in years.” Even Novak manages to look a little nauseated by that. Though he maintains his scowl even as he nods and thanks the judges for their kind words about his ‘work’ – what kind of asshat calls baking ‘work’?

Dean can’t stop himself rolling his eyes. Then remembers, for the two hundredth time that day, they’re being filmed. Sure enough when he looks up there’s a camera and it’s pointing straight at him. That’s just great he thinks; just perfect. That’s really going to help him and Novak to get along while they are forced to be in each other’s company.

Pam puts on shows, little rough-cuts, in the short breaks between challenges. “To give you a feel for what the final product will look like,” she says. It’s more like a chance to show them at their worst, when they are most stressed, and their actions are most unguarded.

On second thoughts, Dean can’t really imagine Novak sitting down to watch any of that. He hasn’t so far, instead spending his breaks away from the others, on the phone, or just sitting quiet and alone. Dean’s probably safe from stirring up any more trouble for himself for the time being. The show won’t be broadcast until after the shoot is completed, and by then Dean will be back home and well beyond the reach of any backlash from the likes of Castiel Novak.

Missouri announces that the winner of the first round is “Jody Mills, for her spectacular flavour combinations and consistency across the three challenges.” There are exclamations of surprise. Not that you’d know that from all the hugs and kisses and stage-whispered confessions of “I knew you’d win,” and “you deserve it.” Not that Jody’s baking wasn’t great you understand, it was (though Dean will never be ok with putting rosemary in a fruit pie), but everyone expected Castiel to win after the fuss that Crowley made. Thank God for Missouri.

One of the golden oldies gets the chop. Dean didn’t have much to do with the false-teeth crowd so he makes the same sympathetic noises as everyone else (and kind of hates himself for going along with it), as she dabs at the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. Really they’re all just relieved it wasn’t them.

He’s sure there are some people, no names mentioned (Castiel Novak), who expected Dean to be the first one out.  He hopes they are seriously disappointed to discover that Dean really is good at baking. The prize money is a big deal for him, and no matter how reluctant Dean might have been to get involved, he’s here because he’s in it to win it, unlike certain self-important rich-guys playing about on the show for PR shits and giggles.

“So that’s it my lovelies, the end of the first round,” Pam says as she strides into the marquee. In the glare of the overhead lights her lip lacquer shines a deep dramatic red. If it trickled down her chin she’d look like a well fed vampire. “Congratulations, Jody, on being our first winner-of-the-week and commiserations to you Ms Perkins. We’re sorry to lose you – you’ve been an absolute star!” There’s a small round of applause and people hug it out with the old dear, dropping platitudes about how it should have been them, not her, going home – rubbish really, she messed up badly in the technical challenge.

“You poor sods,” had been Crowley’s helpful statement after setting them loose to make hand-raised hot water crust pies. All their efforts had been pretty disastrous but poor old Ms Perkins effort was an inedible pile of undercooked mush. The judges hadn’t even dared to try it.

“Round two is in two weeks, and the theme is cakes, so I’ll see you all in Virginia. Good luck with your preparations and don’t forget to submit your ingredient lists in plenty of time.” Pam puts her hand to her mouth and blows a kiss to the whole room as a goodbye.

Two weeks. Two weeks until the next round. If he wants to win, Dean has to use that time to study, to practise, and to put in his order for ingredients. Scratch that; his over-order for ingredients. He won’t be making the same mistake again. He harrumphs quietly to himself as the contestants filter out of the tent and make their way back over to the hotel -- so much for getting away from the show and back to his real life. 

Novak cuts a lonely figure as he heads in the opposite direction, moving towards his car. It’s big, black, and shiny, and it’s waiting with the engine running so Novak can make his escape extra fast. He didn’t stay at the hotel with the other contestants. It probably wasn’t good enough. Not up to his exacting standards – the standards that let him make perfect key lime pie and harshly judge a person’s character. Dean can’t even imagine how desperate Novak must be to get away from the other contestants; vulgar people like Dean; the insignificant little people of the world that Novak would never willingly spend time with. The driver opens the door and Castiel is swallowed up by the trappings of his rich-guy life. He must be breathing a sigh of relief right about now.

Dean’s just glad that Novak is gone. He only has to see him during the shoot – just the odd day every few weeks. Yeah, Dean can handle that. He’s not a child, and he isn’t (usually) an irrational person, he can keep a lid on his dislike of Novak, keep it sealed up and away from prying eyes long enough to make it through the summer. So long as it isn’t any more than the odd day everything should be fine.


	2. Netherfield

**Part 2: Netherfield**

The tinny strains of Smoke on the Water rip a jagged line through the early morning quiet. Dean groans, turns over, and heroically resists the urge to smash his cell phone into silence.

“Go away,” he grumbles, suddenly aware that his mouth is drier than Gandhi’s flip-flop when his voice emerges as a pathetic sandpaper rasp.

The music ends and the phone stills in its attempt to skitter its way across the bedside table and on to the floor. It’s too early for this shit. If it’s Sam calling, he’s going to be getting an earful about it, later on, when Dean’s recovered enough to manage it. His head hurts. The sunlight is too bright, too yellow, and too everywhere; he doesn’t want to open his eyes. Just give him a few more minutes, maybe an extra half hour of recovery time and he’ll be just peachy. Actually peachy might be a bit ambitious but he really couldn’t feel much worse than he does right now.

He spends a moment wishing hell and damnation on the mystery caller then switches to mumbled curses aimed at Jo Harvelle; her and her stupid “I dare you” and her lines of afterhours shots (and damn him for not backing down from the challenge).

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut against the light and tries to fall back to sleep. Shit, he thinks as he slaps a hand over his face and scrubs at it. He has a whole day of work at Bobby’s ahead and he’ll need to have his wits about him if he doesn’t want to end up fired or squished to death under a truck. He is getting too old for this kind of thing, as Sam so helpfully reminds him, almost daily, since Dean reached the big three-O.

As if work wasn’t enough to deal with, he needs to spend the evening planning for the next round of the bake-off. This is his life now apparently. Any moment he isn’t working, at the auto-shop or the Roadhouse, he spends thinking about the damn show; finding recipes, practising recipes, reading recipes – that fucking competition is starting to take over his entire life. No wonder he got drunk out of his gourd at the first opportunity.

With three rounds down and a possible seven to go, he’s not going to be having any fun this summer is he? Not with this hanging over him. Technically there are two or three weeks of down time between each shoot but the days pass in a floury blur of working and baking, and baking and working, until Dean hardly knows the difference. A few days ago he even started a conversation, with a very pretty lady who’d been making eyes at him over the bar all night, by talking about the relative merits of making his own sourdough starter. She looked at him like he was a crazy person. Then told him, in slow clear words that, oh dear, she’s just remembered an appointment she really needs to be at (at eleven o’clock at night, yeah right), somewhere else, far away from Dean and his baking skills.

It was worth all the work and the hassle though, because he still had a shot at the big prize. He was still in the competition; even if he was mid-pack with the likes of Charlie and Andy and not a front runner like Jody or, and Dean hated to admit it, Castiel Novak. Just the thought of that man made Dean feel irritated – stupid rich guy and his amazing technical skills. Novak had won ‘cake’ week with yet another fancy showstopper bake. He didn’t make the sort of food Dean would ever want to eat; too many weird flavour combinations and ingredients he’d never heard of, but the guy was precise, methodical and controlled and it worked, though it did nothing to dispel Dean’s robot hypothesis.

When he shared his suspicion with Andy, over a few too many complimentary beers (thank you Show), it led to a full on conspiracy theory that explained why Novak never stayed in the hotels with the other contestants.

“It’s because he has to go somewhere to power-down, or maybe he has to regenerate every night in his Borg alcove,” Andy had said, his eyes as round as flying saucers. He then spent the following day shooting suspicious, and slightly terrified, glances in Novak’s direction. All Novak did in return was frown at them, as usual.

In a weird way, Novak’s continued presence in the competition was a boon to Dean’s chances. Because it wasn’t just about the prize money anymore; he also, hand on his heart, sincerely and desperately wanted to beat Castiel Novak. The mere idea of knocking him off his, bought and paid for, pedestal filled Dean with glee. He wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened but idle thoughts of maybe winning had morphed into a determined desire to win. So much for the Bake-Off being fun like everyone had claimed when Dean let them bully him into it.

The muffled tune of Dean’s cellphone starts up again. Whoever it is better have something damn important to say, he thinks, as he huffs and grabs at it. The handset rattles against his fingers like it’s alive and trying to escape. There’s no caller id on the display just a string of unrecognised numbers. Dean pulls a face as he hits accept and gets ready to cuss out whatever salesman has the gall to hassle him so early on a hung-over morning.

“Dean?” asks the voice on the other end of a crackling line. It’s a woman’s voice. Okay so that’s unexpected. “Is this Dean?” She sounds agitated, serious, and Dean suddenly finds he is very awake.

He sits up in bed, goes from half-asleep to wide-awake in the blink of an eye, while his heart clambers up into his throat and he struggles to push words out around it. Dean’s heard this tone too many times in his life already. The one used by sympathetic ladies with sad looking smiles. The ones they send, out of white washed rooms that smell of blood and antiseptic, to tell you the bad news. “I’m sorry, the injuries were just too severe, and we tried everything but...” He’s heard it before and doesn’t want to hear it again. Not now, not ever.

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Who is th...” He’s cut off before he can finish the question.

“Oh thank God!” The voice is filled with relief and Dean realises now that there is a ring of familiarity to it. “Dean, it’s Sarah, Sarah Blake. I’m calling because of Sam.” Dean goes cold. Icy fear creeps up his spine as he waits for the bad news. But Sarah is merciful and rescues him quickly. “It’s nothing terrible,” she reassures, then adds a quick, “there’s just been a little accident.”

Dean tries to swallow down the swell of nausea as nightmare images of twisted metal and broken glass flicker through his mind. His head fills with the screech of metal on metal, and he can almost smell the gasoline and the rusty tang of blood.

“What is it Sarah, what’s happened?” His head spins, from the hang-over or the spike of adrenaline he couldn’t say, but he doesn’t like it.

“He’s got a broken leg.” She sounds distraught, while relief makes Dean laugh. It comes out high pitched and a little hysterical.

“Okay, that’s not so bad,” he says once he takes a breath. Sarah makes a little noise of agreement. He doesn’t have the heart to confess he was talking to himself.

He manages to sound suitably concerned but he’s dancing the frigging lambada on the inside, relieved it isn’t worse. Sarah doesn’t need to know that. Come to think of it, he’s not sure how much Sam has told her about their family or lack thereof. The two of them have been spending time together. Dating would probably be the usual term for it, but given the distances involved and the fact that half the time they have to make do with phone calls or Skype, that might be overstating the facts. They like each other a lot, that much is obvious, and apart from Sarah’s terrible taste in friends she’s a great gal. Dean approves.

“So how did this happen? Where is he?” Dean asks. He has the phone wedged in between his shoulder and his ear as he pulls clothes from the closet and stuffs them into a duffle-bag. The last minute or so is a bit of a blur and he has no recollection of when he extricated himself from the bed.

“Sam did tell you I invited him to stay at my house for a few days didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did but I thought that was next week?” Dean did remember Sam saying something about it. Jesus Christ was Dean so wrapped up in the show, and batters and flours and pudding recipes, that he can’t keep track of time?

“It was supposed to be, but I had some unexpected free time so we moved it forward,” she explains. So he wasn’t going mad then, thank God. “We were horse-riding and well... I don’t think Sam’s a natural horseman.” Sarah goes silent and for a few seconds all Dean hears is the faint electronic crackle and hum of poor cell service. “Dean, are you still there? Sam is ok and we’re taking good care of him I can assure you.”

The need to be at Sam’s side, to check on his little brother for himself, is overwhelming. Just because Dean’s family has already experienced more tragedy than most, does not mean they will be spared more. There is no inoculation, no immunity through exposure, against loss. Dean shivers and shoves a handful of clean boxers into his bag more roughly than they deserve.

“Can you put Sam on the phone?”

“I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t. They gave him quite a bit of pain medication yesterday and it knocked him out completely; he’s still sleeping it off. The good news is, he doesn’t need to stay in the hospital so I’ll be taking him back to my house in a couple of hours.”

He moves to the tiny cupboard sized bathroom and swipes razors and toothpaste straight off the windowsill, dumping them in the duffle on top his clothes, careless of potential damage.

“What the hell was he doing on a horse?” he asks, as he finally identifies the part of this tale of woe that makes no fucking sense.

“It was a surprise?” It comes out sounding like a question and Sarah makes a strangled noise of frustration before she goes on. She’s angry with herself, Dean can tell, it’s an emotion he has more than a passing familiarity with. “I honestly thought he’d enjoy it and I was sure he told me he could ride.”

“I think he might have sat on a horse once.”  

“He mentioned he’d had lessons when he was younger, so I thought it might be fun to go on a hack.”

“I don’t know what that means but it sounds painful.”

“A hack... a trail ride... you know on horseback,” she explains for the dunce standing in the middle of the room with no pants on.

“Oh,” is all Dean says in response. The first flush of panic starts to dull and his head throbs a little in reminder of last night’s tequila flavoured adventures. “Sam did have a couple of lessons about a million years ago when he was a kid.” The memory is grey and old but Dean drags it out of retirement at the back of his brain. They weren’t real lessons of course, there’s no way they could afford such a luxury, but one of Sam’s school friends had a pony that he let him sit on a few times. “Hey, is the horse ok? Sam’s grown a bit since he was ten.”

It has the desired effect. Sarah’s laugh echoes softly down the line. “I made sure they gave him the biggest animal in the stables, unfortunately it also turned out to be the most stubborn.” There is a pause before her voice goes serious again. “Sam’s holding up really well, and we’re doing everything we can to make him comfortable, but I think it would be good if you could come and see him, Dean. I know a broken leg isn’t the worst thing to ever happen but I travel a lot myself and I know it isn’t nice being among strangers when you’re not at your best. I really am sorry about all this.”

“It’s not your fault. Sam’s a big boy; he can look after himself, and if he wants to go around showing off in front of pretty girls then that’s his bad.” He’s rewarded with a warm laugh from the other end of the line.

“Will you come then?” she asks. “I can put you on the next flight out; send a car to the airport to collect you.”

“No. I’ll drive.” Dean has to clear his throat to suppress a small curl of irritation.  He hopes it hasn’t shown in his voice. He knew Sarah was being kind and trying to help in a way that was natural to her – offering to pay without a second thought – but Dean balks at the idea. He doesn’t need anyone’s help to go visit his injured brother.

“Oh yes, you don’t like flying do you, I forgot sorry,” she apologises as she picks up on the tension in Dean’s tone but misattributes the cause. Dean is more than happy for her to put it down to his fear of flying instead of the knee jerk “I don’t need your charity” reaction it really is.

“No I don’t fly if I can help it,” he says going along with her assumption. “You’re in Pennsylvania right?”

“That’s right. I’ll text you the directions.”

“It’ll take about a day to get to you. Just let Sam know I’m on my way and that I’ll be there as soon as I can in the morning.”

And as easy as that (with the addition of some clothes because he doesn’t want to get arrested for public indecency) Dean is on the I-70 heading east, his big black car eating up the miles between him and Sam.

He calls Bobby from the road.

“You ain’t the only one that cares for that big lummox,” Bobby grouses as Dean starts to apologise for missing work. “Don’t worry about the garage; we can manage for a few days without the sight of your ugly face.”

“Aww, Bobby, you know you love me really.”

Bobby grumbles. “Yeah, well I’ll love you a whole lot more when you’re back here helping me full time. Ash spends way too much time chatting up the customers, and Garth keeps sneaking off into reception every five minutes.”

“He finally nut up and ask Becky out?” Dean thought the skinny idiot would never get around to it; good on him.

“I don’t know,” Bobby says sounding grim, “that’s what I got you for, so I don’t have to deal with all that crap. People making cow eyes at each other, it just ain’t natural.” Dean laughs and Bobby huffs down the line in annoyance. “Well it ain’t natural at work. Never mind all that, you just go take care of your brother and don’t forget to call when you’ve seen him. Now get off the damn phone. I don’t want to be getting a call that you’re in hospital as well.” Fair point, Dean bids his farewell and hangs up.

The money he’d had up front from the Bake-Off would make this situation a hell of a lot easier. There was ample to cover a few days of missed work. It would mean less for the savings pot but at least Dean didn’t have to choose between making rent and visiting his bashed up idiot of a brother.

An accident and creeping tailback, just outside Dayton, forces Dean off the road and into a flea-pit motel overnight, adding extra hours to his journey. He had toyed with the idea of staying on the road, driving through the night, but Bobby’s warning was in his ears and the old guy was right. Dean did not want to be the next member of his family broken into pieces, lying in a hospital bed, to rack up bills he couldn’t possibly hope to pay.

Dean pulls up at Sarah’s house as the sun nears its apex in a cloud dotted sky, wheels crunching a slow crawl over the gravel driveway. The house is big but not huge, modern looking, with plate glass panels all along one side. It should look cold and exposed; the inside on display for all to see, like a dolls-house. Instead the glass is filled with reflected greens and browns from the surrounding woodlands. Its clean lines and sharp edges made it look a little like some hidden lab from a sci-fi movie that somehow managed to blend in with the ash, maple and beech of the woods at its back. Dean would put money on it all being high-spec and environmentally friendly. Like he knew, if he glanced up, he would see solar panels adorning the roof.

It was all very Sarah, and Dean was not at all surprised to realise, very Sam. Dean didn’t care too much about those things himself, but so long as they didn’t try to make him use one of those composting toilets Sam had been talking about (at length), he was fine with it.

Sarah stands on the doorstep blinking in the midday sun as he gets out of the car. She was dressed a lot more casually than the last time Dean had seen her and, if anything, she looked better for it; happier and more relaxed. She waves at him and beckons him over.

“Welcome to Netherfield,” she calls out. “You got here fast.” She sounds both impressed and pleased. “We weren’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

“No point in hanging around the motel unless you get your rocks off counting roaches,” he says and smiles while Sarah grimaces. “How’s the invalid?”

“Grumpy but trying to be polite about it.” She pulls him into an unexpected hug and he pats her back awkwardly. “I’m glad you came,” she says as she moves away. “Come with me, I’ll take you to him straight away. Leave your cases,” she adds, “I’ll send someone to bring them in later.”

“What cases?” Dean asks. He throws a wink in her direction and hefts his scuffed and ill-packed duffle onto his shoulder.

She gives a good natured shrug. “Never mind then,” she says, and leads him into the house.

The decor inside is as pared back as the exterior of the house suggests. Not minimalist, and definitely not cold or severe, but simple, with plain walls and large feature paintings that make pools of vibrant colour and violent movement, in the otherwise calm and comfortable space. Not as cosy as Dean would chose for himself but nice nonetheless.

Voices get louder as they approach a room at the back of the entrance hall. Sarah pulls up and touches Dean’s arm to stop him. Should he be concerned that she looks a little guilty right now?

“In all the panic yesterday I forgot to tell you that my sisters are visiting as well,” she admits.

“That’s cool.” Dean shrugs. He’s here for Sam, not to socialise. 

She brightens, starts to walk again, relieved at his nonchalance at the news. “Castiel’s come with them. I told him he needed to take a break from baking.” She guides Dean past the room where the voices live. Dean gets a glimpse of Meg’s red lipped smile and the back view of a dark tousled-haired head, starting to turn in their direction, as they go by. Sarah doesn’t give him time to worry about it leading him up and onto the first floor, where doors flank the central corridor on either side. “I’ll tell you the same as I told him.” There is a warning in her voice. “Stay the heck out of my kitchen!,” she says and pokes him hard in the shoulder to emphasise her point. “You are not to lift a finger while you’re here. If you’re anything like Castiel, I’ll bet you need a break too before you get some kind of burnout.” She stops at the third door in the line-up. “Though I suppose I can’t stop you from comparing notes can I?” Not much chance of that, Dean thinks, while he hums a noncommittal noise of agreement. “What’s the theme for next time?” She asks.

“Cookies.”

“Really?” Sarah brightens, her mouth forming a happy little ‘o’ of surprise. Dean can’t help smiling at her artless enthusiasm. “In that case, maybe I should let you guys loose in the kitchen. I do like a good cookie and I’ll bet you two could come up with something amazing if you put your heads together.”

“Yeah maybe,” he hedges, though ‘not fucking likely’ would probably be the more honest response.

A knock on Sam’s door gets a wobbly “come in” of permission before Sarah opens the door and ushers Dean inside. She doesn’t follow him in but she does snag the heavy duffle-bag from Dean’s shoulder as he goes by.

“I’ll put this in your room for you,” she says, hefting it onto her arm. “The doctor said the pain meds would make him sleep, so just come downstairs and find us when you’re ready, or when he kicks you out.” So she’d experienced irritable Sam then and, judging by the way her face softened with a smile and a pink blush as she looked over at Dean’s sleep dishevelled brother, it hadn’t done anything to put her off. “We’re having dinner at eight, I hope you’ll be able to join us,” she says before adding with a smirk, “We seem to have a spare place since your brother decided to go rodeo rider on us.”

Sam pulls a disgruntled face, Dean laughs, and Sarah leaves them to it, departing with a promise to come back and check on them later.

“Sam, that girl is crazy,” Dean says as soon as the door closes, “and the coolest girl you ever dated. You should marry her quick before she realises what a nerd you are.”

Sam grumbles but he’s smiling; even if it is a doped up crooked kind of thing. After twenty-four hours of worry, which was pressing on him like a ten tonne weight, Dean can relax, tension releasing with every new exhale. Sam is fine, more or less, and he’s being well cared for. Here, with Sarah, Sam has access to the best doctors and all the best drugs that money can buy. Sarah’s presence is a bonus, a balm, that makes Sam’s pain gave way to doe eyed adoration. It could not be more obvious whenever she is near (thanks to some of the funnier, inhibition reducing, side-effects of the drugs Sam is taking for the pain). Dean is so happy to see it he can’t even bring himself to make fun of it, well, not as much as usual anyway (old habits die hard). 

Not all the visitors at Netherfield, however, were so happy about the brothers’ reunion. Dean’s arrival, announced by the hard growl of the impala’s engine, provoked a decidedly mixed response; Meg and Hester sighed and looked disgruntled; Mr Hurst poured another drink and grumbled about “the inconvenience of having strangers in the house;” while Castiel remained inscrutable, an unconscious turn of his head in the direction of Dean’s voice the only clue that he had even noticed the new addition to their party.

“I know Sarah invited him,” Meg complains as soon as the sound of footsteps has faded. “But is he really too ignorant to realise she was just being polite?” She holds an unlit cigarette between her fingers squeezing it as if she wants to smoke but can’t be bothered. She had already remonstrated with Sarah at length about the inconvenience of her rule about not smoking in the house, declaring that they impinge on her “freedom and human rights.” The argument had fallen on deaf ears. Now Meg’s only recourse is to subject everyone in the vicinity to her special acerbic brand of nicotine withdrawal. It makes her only marginally more waspish than usual.

Her comment is met with a silence she mistakes for tacit approval so she continues. “What does he mean by tearing across the country in that rust-bucket just because his brother has a broken a couple of bones and has a few bruises?” She turns her attention to Castiel but fails to draw more than a fleeting glance from him in return. She doesn’t give up. “I’m all for family affection of course,” she opines. “But it’s rather over the top behaviour don’t you think? Don’t you agree Castiel?” He has no decided opinion on the matter and so he doesn’t respond.

Meg looks vexed and pouts a little.  She flicks her hair away from her shoulders and turns to address her sister instead. “I think it shows a selfish disregard for other people to impose on us with so little notice.”

Castiel fixes her with a stare that she preens under, in her usual manner, completely, and perhaps even purposely, misconstruing his intension. “It shows a strong affection for his brother,” he says softly, “which isn’t a bad thing.”

“Well, yes.” Meg frowns and looks dubious. “I suppose it might. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want your sister to go speeding across the state in a panic if you were in Sam’s place, would you?”

“No I certainly wouldn’t.” 

She makes a happy noise at having, finally, pulled an agreement from him, shares a pleased look with Mrs Hurst, and asks, “did you see the car he showed up in?” Meg’s smoke-rough voice is loud in the quiet of the room uncaring that she might be overheard by the subject of her observations.

“I don’t know how anyone could miss it,” Hester replies quickly, “covered in all that mud and dirt? Such a nasty loud old thing; I’d be ashamed to arrive anywhere in such a contraption aside from a scrap yard perhaps.” The sisters dissolve into fits of laughter and even Mr Hurst manages to summon a derisive snort. Castiel, however, remains stoically unmoved by the joke, to Meg’s disappointment.

“With any luck Sam will be comfortable enough to travel in a few days,” Meg says once she’s recovered her breath. “The Winchesters will be gone and what a pleasure it will be to have the house to ourselves again.”

“Sarah will be sorry to lose Sam’s company,” Castiel points out.

“We all will,” she backtracks hurriedly. “He’s a nice guy; friendly, educated, and I dare say vastly superior to this brother of his.” Mr and Mrs Hurst nod a general agreement.

Castiel says nothing.

The brothers do create staggeringly different first impressions. Sam is as polite and well mannered as Dean is abrasive and vulgar; the younger is amusing and articulate (as a future lawyer should be) where the elder is puerile and blithe. Though they share an energy that marks them as family; a bright spirit that draws people in, tempts them closer, like moths to a flame. He’s seen it in the way Sarah gravitates to Sam’s side when they are in a room together and in the way the Bake-Off contestants flutter about around Dean. Castiel has tried and failed to understand what they find so charming about personality traits he considers to be flaws; though Sarah has tried to convince him he’s wrong, arguing that Dean is “laid back but not irresponsible, flippant but not rude, and flirtatious but not debauched.”

Hester picks up and pulls at the thread of Meg’s conversation. “I wonder what the rest of the family is like. I heard Sam say he was the first one in his family to go to college and his uncle runs a garage in Lawrence where the brother works.” She hisses the words as if uttering them is painful to her.

“Sarah got the cream of that genetic crop by the sound of it,” Meg drawls. “Remind me next time we’re in Kansas and I’ll take my car in for a tune-up.” Castiel looks out of the window, contemplates the shifting shadows deep in the sun dappled woods that border Netherfield, as the others laugh.

The sound sneaks out of the room; it slips between floorboards and twists around corners it grows smaller and thinner until it reaches the brothers – as a soft sound that echoes in the quiet of Sam’s room (the freak isn’t even watching TV from his sick bed, what a waste).

“Sounds like someone is having a good time,” Dean says. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks it isn’t Novak.”

Sam attempts a sleepy version of a bitch face and fails miserably. He looks more like a grumpy puppy. “Give it a break, he isn’t that bad,” Sam says for the millionth time, then sensibly opts to change the subject. “Thanks for coming, Dean,” he says. His voice is gentle and slurred around the edges. He blinks at Dean from a huge, squishy, pillow strewn bed.

“It’s nothing; you’d do the same for me.”

“Sure but I know you don’t like Sarah’s family.”

“The family I can handle,” Dean jokes. “It’s the friend that really pisses me off.” Sam starts to apologise but Dean brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “I like your Sarah though; you’ve picked a good one there Sammy-boy.”

“She’s not mine, Dean, and I think she’d punch you in the neck if she ever heard anyone talking about her like that.”

“She don’t need no man, huh?”

“Shut up, Dean. You sound ridiculous, and actually no, she definitely doesn’t need any man.”

Dean laughs. “You’re probably right, though I’m pretty sure she wants one, and I’m pretty sure it’s you, so you better not mess it up; especially since I’m going to have to make nice with the ugly sisters and dull-as-dirt Novak because of it.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I promise not to let your hard work go to waste if I can possibly help it,” he says and makes a pained face, eyes going squinty, as he moves his leg under the covers. “Do you really think they’re so bad? The sisters I mean. They were a bit stand-offish at first but they’re okay with me now. Maybe a bit more concerned with money and prestige than Sarah is, but that’s understandable I guess coming from a wealthy background. If you give them a chance you might be surprised. Meg is actually quite funny and some of her jokes remind me of the sort of thing you would say.”

“I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.” Dean tries to fake some enthusiasm. Sam shouldn’t be worrying about Dean while Dean is worrying about him. “I’ll try not to embarrass you too much with my bad manners.” He lifts his hand three fingers raised in the air. “Scouts honour,” he says wearing an innocent expression.

“You were never a scout,” Sam says. He grabs a particularly fluffy pillow from the pile next to him and throws it at Dean’s head.

Dean grins. “Well then you’ll just have to hope I’m telling the truth won’t you.”

Sam sits back heavily, eyelids drooping as the meds start to kick in again. “Thanks, Dean, I know you’ll try.” He yawns and burrows into the bed getting comfy. “And I keep telling you; even Castiel might grow on you if you got to know him a bit better. He’s been perfectly nice to me these last few days. Maybe not friendly, exactly, but nice enough and he’s been a good friend to Sarah for a long time and I trust her judgement.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Just remember, Dean, they’ve lived a very different sort of life to us, you can’t expect they’ll understand or value the same things we do.”

“I’ll try. For you and Sarah, I will try.” Dean says and sighs at the effort it’s going to take to keep that promise.

“Good, then you can start tonight,” Sam says sounding pleased, and Dean can’t help the creeping feeling that he’s been led into a trap. “Sarah’s organised a chef for the evening. She wanted to cancel when I had the accident but I told her you could make up the numbers.”

“Gee thanks for that, Sam.” Dean says sarcastically and puts his still booted feet up onto the edge of Sam’s glowingly white bed.

“What? Would you rather be stuck up here watching me nap?” Dean considers it. “I wasn’t being serious, Dean, God. Go eat some amazing food and concentrate on talking to Sarah if that’s what you have to do. Just please try to get through it without punching anyone.”

Dean mumbles a half-assed agreement. He’ll do it because it would be rude not to. But he’ll make his excuses as early as possible, escape back to Sam, and play the worried big brother role for all it’s worth. Maybe let a single tear slip out to really sell it.

At Sam’s insistence Dean goes to find his own room so he can “smarten up” before dinner. It’s neat and somewhat snug, given the overall size of the house. But with all the other hangers-on Sarah is currently hosting, it is amazing that they fit at all.

His duffle sits on the end of the bed empty, and twisted into a mound like a ragged old cat. His panic reflex is quickly pushed down, this isn’t one of those shady motels his dad had been so fond of. His things were safe, he just needed to find them (and thank God he hadn’t picked up the bag he kept his porn in by mistake – that would have been super awkward). He found the clothes he’d hurriedly balled up and stuffed in the bag hanging neatly in the wardrobe, looking rather more washed and pressed than he remembered (who knew rich folk had magical wardrobe-laundry-elves? Maybe he could get one to take home; but only if it was a free-elf obviously). His toothbrush and shaving kit were neatly lined up on the basin in the en-suite shower room.

In the rush of worry after Sarah had called, Dean hadn’t exactly considered what he was packing and being invited (or forced) to attending some la-de-dah dinner party wasn’t at the top of his things that might happen when your brother breaks his leg and cracks his ribs list. He didn’t have a whole lot of options, so in the end he slung a clean checked shirt over a grey Henley and changed into a slightly less worn out pair of jeans (with a rip across the knee that the elves had neglected to sew up - maybe he should complain to someone?).

It is with a grudging sense of duty that Dean makes his way downstairs.

He follows the sound of clipped voices, horribly insipid soft jazz, and Mrs Hurst’s nasal laughter to find the party gathered in the dining room. They stop talking as he walks in. Meg looks him over, slowly, head to toe and raises her eyebrows when her gaze reaches the floor. He only had one pair of boots with him and, unless everyone wants to be put off their food, they are staying firmly on his feet, dirt and all. Novak glares at him from the far side of the room and it takes all Dean’s will power not to do a one-eighty and walk out again.

All chances of making a clean get away end when Sarah takes his arm, linking them together, like a couple from one of those old black and white movies his mother used to watch.

“Dean, I’m so pleased you’re here and able to join us,” she says, and he can see in her eyes that she means it. She presses on his arm drawing him into the room. “Come and sit by me. We haven’t had much of a chance to talk yet and I want to hear as many embarrassing stories about Sam as possible.” Oh my God, he could kiss her for saving him from the awkwardness but he’ll leave that to Sam. She points to a high backed chair close to hers as she takes the seat at the head of the well appointed table. Dean figures it must be some kind of signal because their four fellow diners also take their seats.

Mrs Hurst slides into the seat to his left, nodding at her husband to sit at the foot of the table.  This lets Meg take the chair opposite, putting her conveniently next to Novak. Which Dean realises a moment later, when there are cold blue eyes peering at him over the table settings, means Novak spends the entire meal sitting directly across from Dean.

“That’s just perfect,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”Mrs Hurst asks.

“I said the table looks perfect.” He raises his voice as if she’s hard of hearing and tries his best to bluff. He turns to Sarah, avoiding eye contact with Novak in the process, though he can tell that the guy is watching him, and asks “So, what are we having for dinner then?”

The food is good; really damn good. So good that he’s tempted to brave Novak’s looks of disgust and shovel the main course into his mouth with his fingers. Sarah is attentive and doesn’t leave him in silence for too long – particularly when Meg starts a series of scathing attacks about people Dean’s never heard of. Novak remains stoic throughout; saying no more than a handful of words at any one time and addressing none of them to Dean – for which he is profoundly grateful.

“I hope your brother is feeling better.”

Dean blinks and looks up from the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup.  He’d been lost in thought. Contemplating the best flavour combinations for a Danish pastry and how the heck he’s going to get gingerbread to stick together securely (though if anyone asked, he’s ready with a quip about the centrefold from this month’s Busty-Asian Beauties). There’s a figure standing against the light, way too close for comfort, it takes a second or two for Dean’s eyes to adjust and to realise Novak is staring down at him.

“What?” Dean feels an urge to push his chair back, put some extra space between them, but he reins in the urge – refuses to clue Novak in on the fact that he’s unsettled. 

Castiel clears his throat before repeating, a little slower, and a little louder this time. “I was asking after your brother. I hope Sam is feeling better?”

“A bit, yeah.” Dean says. He gives Novak what he hopes is a casual look and hides his “why the fuck are you talking to me” surprise behind it.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. And do Dean’s eyes deceive him or does Novak look a miniscule, microscopic, fraction of a percent less angry than usual? What is going on? Has the world gone mad.

“He should be well enough to travel in a day or two so long as he doses up on some of those kick-ass pain killers Sarah’s doctor gave him.” They’re being watched. Dean can feel Meg’s creepy little peepers on him as she follows Novak’s every word. She looks equal parts surprised and pissed. Evidently Dean is not the only one puzzled by Novak’s sudden interest.

“I think it might be wise to wait a little longer.” Castiel’s brow creases up again but this time it looks less like disapproval and more like concern. Dean can’t be sure though; it’s fleeting, gone so fast he can’t be sure it really happened. He’s still tired from the long drive, maybe it was a hallucination. “You need to be careful with prescription painkillers,” Novak goes on. “It’s easy to become over-reliant on them and they shouldn’t be taken unless absolutely necessary.”

Dean goggles at him. His jaw clenches and his fingers tighten reflexively around the coffee cup in his hands. Who does Novak think he is? Who is he to instruct Dean on what his brother should be doing? Dean’s been looking after Sam his whole life; he doesn’t need anyone’s advice on how to do it. Least of all from someone like Novak who’s had everything handed to him on a God-damn plate; what does he know about responsibility, about caring for others?

Novak nods. Oblivious to the resentment bubbling under Dean’s skin, he turns and walks away; congratulating himself, no doubt, on his generous and benevolent counsel. He takes up residence on a long couch nearby where he is joined by Meg and Hester; flanked on either side – poor son-of-a-bitch. Dean might feel sorry for him if he wasn’t so irritated.

There’s a loud crack. It makes everyone jump.  Even Mr Hurst stirs from his customary doze; feet up, and head lolling on a big leather chair. It isn’t until Sarah’s suddenly there, taking broken pieces of china from his hands, that Dean realises he’s broken the coffee cup.

He hears Meg hiss something to Mrs Hurst. She leans across Novak to do it making him privy to the conversation. “Maybe they don’t have cups in Kansas,” Hester says in reply, just loud enough for Dean to hear. Bitch!

“Don’t worry about it, Dean,” Sarah reassures him as he begins to apologise. It’s nothing, she tells him, she has plenty more where that one came from and she never really liked them that much anyway. It’s sweet how she tries to soothe his agitation and assumes the case was a simple accident (it was an accident but it wouldn’t have happened if Novak wasn’t such a giant asshat).

Dean’s had enough. He uses the coffee now decorating his jeans as an excuse to escape the room. He needs to check on Sam anyway and has to catch up on his sleep. Sarah looks concerned, reluctantly wishes him a good night, and lets him go.

“Nighty night then,” Meg calls out. Mrs Hurst smirks and waves while her husband snores; he must be tuckered out from all the drama.

“Thanks,” Dean says sarcastically. He needs to get out, right now, before he completely loses it with someone.

“Good night, Dean,” in Novak’s deep dry voice is the last thing Dean hears as he walks out the door.

It grates on his last raw nerve as he closes the door behind him, hard. It swings closed with a solid and satisfying bang.

To make things even more perfect, it turns out Novak was right with his advice. Sarah’s doctor called the following day and declared, in no uncertain terms, that Sam should not be moved (especially not by means of “that torture contraption outside”) for at least another four days. For three days Dean manages to stick with Sam safely away from the other visitors. 

The brothers were more or less left to themselves apart from the occasional visit from Sarah, and once, by the less welcome presence of the ugly sisters (though they surprised Dean with what looked like genuine concern for Sam). After three continuous days, with little to distract them, Sam is just about ready to throttle Dean.

“Go downstairs, Dean, for God’s sake.” Sam switches off the TV before he talks, so Dean knows he means business. “If you won’t do it for the sake of my sanity then do it for Sarah. She’s been really thoughtful letting you stay. The least you can do is go and spend a couple of hours with them and thank her for the hospitality.” He was right and Dean knew it. He chewed on the rough edge of a fingernail for a minute while he reluctantly mulled it over, discarding a series of excuses along the way.

“Okay, Sam,” he agreed at last. “But you are going to owe me big if it’s as bad as last time.”

Weirdly, it isn’t as bad as last time.

The conversation is, in general, entirely too focussed on things Dean has little interest in and even less knowledge of. Instead of joining in, and risk Meg’s sneers and acid remarks, he opts to linger by the bookcases that line the wall down one side of the room. He pulls out the hard-covers at random; reads each synopsis carefully, and takes his time, before settling on which to borrow. It’s an eclectic selection (all first editions) and Sarah enthusiastically recommends some of her favourites.

“Take whatever you like, Dean,” she tells him. “Books are made to be read, and I hardly have the time these days to do them justice.” After a few more words of encouragement and an assurance that none of them were very valuable, Dean gives in and agrees. He runs his fingers down gold inscribed spines, enjoys the solid sensation of the bumps and dips against his skin, so different from the dog-eared paperbacks he’s used to.

“You keen on reading then, Dean?” asks Mr Hurst. Hester’s usually taciturn husband was close by clutching an over-filled tumbler of liquor in his thick fingers. “I mean aside from cookery books?” He snorts a pig-like laugh that rattles in Dean’s ears.

“Indeed,” calls Mrs Hurst from her post at Novak’s side. “Dean is a great reader, I’m sure of it, and he enjoys nothing else!” She laughs. It’s high, loud, and excessive for the smallness of the joke, if you could even call it a joke.

In return, Dean flashes what he knows is his most charming smile. Let them have their crappy humour at his expense. He doesn’t care what they think of him, given that he thinks so little of them in return. Somewhere along the way it must all balance out.

“I read when I have the time.” He gives them that much, nothing more, and doesn’t address the second comment. Whatever privileges they enjoy or demand, they are not entitled to know the details of Dean’s life, as insignificant as it may be.

Meg whispers something that Dean, thankfully, cannot hear. There is a derisive twist to her blood red mouth as she leans back and crosses her legs in such a way that she contrives to press her thigh against Novak’s. She starts to laugh. Novak looks at Dean; he doesn’t even attempt to be subtle – he just stares – and Dean doesn’t feel the least bit interested in finding out why.

He tries his best to ignore it but he can feel the tips of his ears beginning to burn under the steady gaze. He concentrates on the book in his hands. It’s heavy and has a dusty smell that brings up thoughts of the libraries he used to take Sam to (or that Sam used to drag him to) when they were younger. He lifts it to his face and breathes it in, inhales deep, chasing those flashes of sense memory. Dean’s life has never been easy but it was simpler back then, before the accident, before the debts ballooned out of control, and the miles of distance between him and Sam. There is comfort even in the smallest recollection of joy.

“I’m only sorry I don’t have more for you to choose from, Dean.” Sarah interrupts the awkward moment once Meg’s nasal laugh has died a natural (if slightly wheezing) death. The only intervening sound is a glug and appreciative sigh from the vicinity of Mr Hurst.

“It looks a pretty decent collection to me.” Dean lowers the book and rests it on his knee. “And I’ll pretty much read anything; I’m not fussy.”

Meg and Hester share a pointed look behind Novak’s back that Dean decides to ignore.

“Never mind, Sarah,” Meg says, her voice drips with faux sympathy. “Yours is a new collection. We can’t all expect to have a library like Castiel’s.” She turns imperious eyes on Dean and explains, without invitation or encouragement. “His collection is truly magnificent. I’m endlessly jealous of it.” She presses a hand over her heart dramatically as she simpers at Novak. Her behaviour is so obvious it makes Dean feel slightly sick. For a moment he feels a grudging flash of sympathy for the asshole object of her attentions. Novak, as usual, remains unmoved.

“It is an impressive library, I’ll give you that,” Sarah says. “I bet you’d love it, Dean.” She pulls a chair closer to him. Dean is thankful for her company even if he doesn’t care much for her hypothesis. Novak blinks and looks at her sharply - it’s the biggest reaction he’s given in the last five days. “There’s no denying it, Castiel,” she goes on. “It’s the most wonderful room.  It almost seems magical on autumn nights when the weather is bad and you sit in one of the big armchairs near the fire, all cosy and snug, surrounded by the smell of all those books.”

“I think you’ll find that’s called mould,” Mr Hurst guffaws. Everyone ignores him.

“It’s the work of many generations; I can hardly take credit for it.” Castiel says, forced to finally join the conversation.

“But you keep it well stocked.” Meg jumps in to defend him against himself. “I’ve seen it for myself.” She lifts her chin and shoots Dean a triumphant look. Meg’s been to Novak’s house – whoop-di-doo, good for her – Dean wonders if she took the opportunity to sneak into his room and sniff his sheets as well.

“I do like to get new things for my sister, for when she’s at home,” Castiel says. “I don’t like her to get bored when she’s in the countryside.” He looks down at his hands and Dean sees that Castiel’s fingers are moving, ticking restlessly against his leg. It’s a brief movement that he tries to cover immediately by interlacing his fingers and pressing his hands down on his knee. Human then after all, or so it seems, and there was Dean thinking he’d sprung from a box, fully formed and pre-programmed with only one stern expression.

“Dear Anna.” Meg cries. “How is she? How I long to see her again, Castiel.” Meg turns even further towards Novak, a movement designed to reveal more skin as her tiny skirt slides dangerously high.

Castiel suddenly stands and walks to the window. He stares into the darkness of the surrounding woods. As far as Dean can tell, there isn’t a whole lot to see out there but it’s probably an improvement on Meg flashing her... err... eyes at him every five minutes... seriously no one wants to see that.

Meg presses on, unrelenting, and looks at Dean with a simpering smile and a sharply arched brow. “Castiel’s little sister is such a delight,” she tells him. “The sweetest and prettiest girl you ever saw, and quite the artist or so I’m told. Is she still in Europe Castiel?”

“No, she’s back, but she’s staying with friends.” There is ice forming in Castiel’s voice; he doesn’t so much as glance in Meg’s direction as he answers her question. Instead he keeps his eyes fixed on the bland canvas of the outside world. There’s little to be seen in the darkness; a few stars in the sky and the shapes of trees as they move with the wind. Dean can’t imagine there’s much out there worth such undivided attention; it’s all black shapes against blue, other than their reflections which are picked out on the glass in daubs of reflected colour. Castiel’s eyes are like blue stains on there, dark and unreadable, as Meg continues her relentless assault of flattery by association.

“She speaks French, German, and Italian; plays the piano; Draws and paints; and is so clever she puts the rest of us to shame.”

Castiel turns back to the room, and it’s only at the moment of disconnection that Dean realises they have been watching each other. He doesn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge so he files it away in the “to be forgotten” area of his brain (the one that sits alongside the bit labelled “better not think too hard about it”).

“Speak for yourself, Meg,” Sarah laughs. “Anna is very bright but I think the rest of us can still hold our heads up as reasonably accomplished people; even if we can only speak one or two languages and can’t do a decent sketch to save our lives. I think everyone has some hidden talent; we just have to find it.”

“Perhaps,” Meg concedes. “But often something more than talent is needed for someone to advance in life. A good education and experience of the wider world is a basic necessity, surely.”

“I disagree.” Castiel interrupts unexpectedly and five pairs of eyes settle on him waiting for an explanation. “Knowledge doesn’t necessarily come from formal study or direct exposure to a subject.”

Meg practically beams with joy at having finally been granted a moment of the great Castiel Novak’s attention. “And what would you prescribe, Castiel” she drawls his name, hissing like a snake as she drags out a sibilant “S”. 

“Reading,” he says. “I would recommend reading; as much and as widely as possible. Books are there to teach us what we don’t already know and to show things we’ve never seen. I don’t think there’s a better way to spend your time.”

Sarah claps her hands together in hearty approval. “I couldn’t agree more and I think that has brought us right back to where we started; with me apologising for my all too limited selection – it looks even sadder now doesn’t it, in light of that?”

Dean smiles back at her. “That’s not true and you know it.”

She laughs; it’s a good natured sound that fills the room with warmth. “I’m not sure it’s such a good thing that you can see through me and my poor effort at fishing for compliments, Dean. Maybe I should worry about letting woman-kind down by failing to remain a mystery?”

“You should take it as a compliment,” Dean says simply. Shrugs his shoulders and tries to avoid eye contact with Novak, though he knows they are being watched. “Mystery is fine in a movie,” he says. “In reality, I think people are better off being straight forward and honest with each other. Say what you think, and do what feels right, and then everyone knows where they stand. It’s too tiring having to guess what someone else is thinking all the time. In my experience it’s usually the people who aren’t worth knowing that feel the need to hide everything away like that.”

“You favour honesty over everything else then?” Castiel asks. “But what if honesty causes pain or offense to someone else? It’s an admirable position in theory but it is not a sound one for use in the real world where being honest impacts on other people as well as ourselves.”

“You’re probably right.” Dean opens the book that rests on his knee. Looks down at the pages scanning the words laid out in dark print but doesn’t pay them much attention. “But then I’ve never noticed you being particularly worried about offending anyone.” He doesn’t look up to see if the remark has hit home or not. Maybe Novak hasn’t bothered to hold on to the memory Dean was aiming for. As if the guy ever worried about anyone’s feelings but his own – what a fucking hypocrite.

If Novak was going to say anything, it was forestalled by an exaggerated sigh from Meg.

“Enough with the philosophising,” she complains. “It’s too quiet in here; shall we have some music? Castiel, will you help me chose?”  She all but drags Novak to the couch talking to him in a low voice as she scrolls through endless track lists; debating whether the mood is right for something modern or whether they should stick with jazz – she seldom receives an answer.

A quiet hour or so later, when Dean feels he has more than done his duty, he excuses himself, citing his long journey in the morning as an excuse for an early escape.

Castiel watches him leave. Turns his head to track the sound of Dean’s footsteps as he climbs the stairs, until they fade away beneath the ugly instrumental music Meg has chosen (she often asks for his advice but seldom takes it). He’s puzzled and a little irritated if truth be told; why does his gaze seem to follow Dean’s every move? It’s unconsciously done but keeps happening, again and again, and he can find no satisfactory reason for it.

He’d thought Pam a little crazy when she insisted on telling him all about the handsome mechanic that half the viewers would fall head-over-heels in love with; only to find Dean drunken, somewhat repulsive in his manners, and nothing short of shocking in his forwardness. Castiel was not usually a harsh judge of character; he preferred caution, and to take his time before fixing his opinion. He was willing to admit he may have been too hasty in Dean’s case. Jet-lagged and forced into an uncomfortable situation, it’s possible he may not have been at his best. Sarah thought so and she hadn’t held back in chastising him either.  Though at the time, he’d put it down to her blind partiality for Sam. Castiel’s encounters with Dean during the Bake-Off had done nothing to contradict his early assumptions; Dean was as hostile to him as the other contestants were (jealousy, he was sure, was the motivation there). But now, here in the comfort of Sarah’s home, Dean is different, and perhaps Castiel can see a little of the charm that Pam had been talking about.  

A warm hand grips his arm, and he can feel the press of finger nails, as Meg drags his attention towards her. He tolerates Meg for Sarah’s sake; but she’s demanding and it can be exhausting to be in her company for long, and it’s already been a tiring day. She leans against his side and the silk of her dress rustles and whispers where it catches on his clothes. He would like some distance between them but he has regard for her feelings and so politely holds still.

“How did you enjoy the evening, Castiel?” She’s close and her breath hits the side of his face in warm puffs as she speaks. She’s amused by something and it flickers and dances like flames behind her eyes.

“It was fine,” he replies. “The food was as good as Sarah promised. She’s trying to get me to throw a party for the people involved in the TV show and I think she wants the same chef to cater it.”

Meg almost purrs into his ear. It’s very disconcerting. “I wasn’t talking about the food, silly. I was talking about our good friend Dean Winchester. I noticed you watching him,” she smirks. “Feign to deny it Castiel. You like him and I have found you out.”

“I have been looking at him a little. I don’t feel the need to deny it.” Castiel is unmoved as the smile falls from her face. It’s quickly replaced by sour disappointment. “Pam told me she intends to use him heavily in the promotional material for the show and I was thinking I can see why. He’s attractive and has particularly fine eyes; I imagine he’s very photogenic, so it should work well. As to whether or not I like him,” he continues, “I don’t know enough about him to say one way or the other.”

“Fine eyes?” she mocks, “and after you were so disappointed by him in New York.” She exchanges a smirk with Mrs Hurst. “I remember you saying how surprised you were by Pamela’s praise; that you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in him at all.” She releases him. Her scarlet fingers scrape a light path down his arm; something Castiel guesses is supposed to be a flirtatious gesture – or a punishment for his change of heart. He has to try very hard not to rub at the skin where she touched him.

“I hold to what I said. Pam was excessive in her praise but then she is prone to exaggeration.” Castiel admits.

Meg takes it as a triumph. “Very well,” she tosses her head and her dark locks twist like snakes around her shoulders. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts of Dean and his very fine eyes.” She snorts and strides away. Taking hold of Mrs Hurst’s hand as she passes, she drags her outside so that she can smoke and gossip to her heart’s content.

Castiel abandons the room soon after, leaving Sarah to her book and Mr Hurst’s rumbling snores.

“Was it so bad?” Sam asks, as Dean arrives at the door to his room.

He goes to the bed and ruffles Sam’s way-too-long hair until he protests and slaps Dean’s hands away impatiently. It’s an old exchange, one they’ve played on repeat for fifteen years or more, and the familiarity is comforting.

He fakes a tremulous voice. “It was the worst night of my life, Sammy,” Dean says. He laughs and pokes Sam in the arm when he looks worried for a moment. “Nah, it was fine. Actually I think you should be quite proud of me. I even talked to Castiel and didn’t punch him in his stupid face. I think that shows my tremendous strength of character, don’t you?”

“I told you he might improve if you got to know him better.”

“I didn’t say he’d improved. He was barely civil and kept looking at me with those disapproving eyes of his.” Dean shudders at the recollection. “They’re like bright-blue lasers seeking out stuff to be disgusted by.”

“Bright-blue lasers,” Sam says slowly, and then adds a knowing “huh” to the end. He looks at Dean, all squinty-eyed and silent, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that has a missing piece.

“What?” Dean asks. “You got something to say, Sammy?”

“Nope.” Sam sits back, relaxing into the huge pile of pillows Sarah has gathered for him. “I’ve got absolutely nothing to say about anything.” The grin Sam flashes is toothy and wide and it makes Dean feel incredibly worried, though he can’t put his finger on why.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

Dean rubs at sleep-gritted eyes with the back of his hand then tries to blink away the last clinging shadows of fatigue. When it doesn’t work, he attempts to drown it instead, gulping hurried mouthfuls of scalding coffee from the crappy cardboard cup in his hands. It’s too early for this shit.

The early daylight flashes sharp from the silver buckles of Pamela’s killer boots to scatter, in a fall of bright arrows, among the drowsy contestants. Dean has to squint as he looks up at her holding court, as is her habit, before the day’s shoot begins. She stands on a box that raises her head and shoulders above the crowd. There must be some kind of sorcery at work because it looks like a regular cardboard box and Dean can’t work out how she isn’t piercing holes in it with those ferocious heels.

Pam’s personal army, the red-coated and already liberally caffeinated crew, slouch and yawn behind her. They talk quietly among themselves, as they wait for the instruction to go-go-go, before jumping into a whirl of action and barely organised chaos. Pam raises a hand before she starts – an action as regal as the sparkling diamonds that adorn her fingers – and everyone, apart from the birds still chirping out a dawn chorus, falls quiet.  Dean wouldn’t be at all surprised if Pam somehow managed to make their feathered friends fall silent as well, such is her flair for the dramatic (not to mention her powers of persuasion).

“Ok my lovely baking stars! How are we all feeling this morning? Happy and hungry to get started I hope?” She beams at them from her dais. A few people mutter or smile back in response, timid at first but growing more enthusiastic by the second, as they feed off the energy she gives out. “Good,-good,” Pam says, taking whatever they say as an agreement. “As you know from your schedules, today is cookies; sounds pretty simple but it’s one of Mr Crowley’s favourites – so he’ll probably be extra hard on you all. I want you to promise me that you won’t take any of it personally. You know you’re all already winners to me; but we’re here to put on a show and in our show Mr Crowley is playing the bad guy.”

Andy snorts and shoots Dean a look out the corner of his eye. “He’s been playing that role with a bit too much enthusiasm from what I hear.”

Dean nods, he’s heard the rumours too. Despite Pam’s best efforts the crew were not as discreet as they could be and they’d all heard the rumours that Crowley was a nightmare to work with; arriving late to the shoots; one minute shouting at PAs until they cried and the next being overly handsy with them. Strutting around like he’s king of the fucking castle when everyone knew Pam was the power behind the throne.

“You know the drill by now,” Pam says, “signature bake, then a break at ten, before we move on to the technical challenge.” There is a collective groan from the gathered contestants. “We’ll break for lunch at around two o’clock and do the show-stoppers from three pm onwards.” She grins and looks around the crowd, making eye contact with each person in turn so they know she loves them all.

She claps her hands together and a few of the still-too-sleepy-to-deal-with-this-shit crowd flinch in surprise. “The only other point of business we have for you today is to welcome our new AD.” Pam turns and beckons one of the red-coats forward. “Everybody say hello to Bela.”

“Hello Bela,” they all drone obediently, like a group of kindergarteners welcoming a new teacher. The AD smiles and waves as she bites down on her lip trying ineffectively to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. 

They all stand there quietly for a few minutes, watching Pam gracefully step down from the cardboard platform. Her only aid a hand that rests lightly on her personal assistant’s shoulder. He looks frazzled, as always, and immediately rattles off a list of tasks for the day ahead. She smiles at him, calm and collected, before they head off to do whatever it is Pam does while the Bake-Off is being filmed.

“New AD’s pretty hot,” Andy says quietly.

“Andy, you think all the women here are hot,” Dean teases.

Andy’s eyes go round and innocent. “That’s because they are.”

“Even old Mrs Lucas?” asks Dean.

“Especially Mrs Lucas; I’ll bet once she takes those teeth out...” this is accompanied by a mercifully indecipherable gesture that prompts Dean to punch Andy on the shoulder until he stops. He doesn’t want visuals of whatever depraved thing Andy’s thinking thank you very much; the thought is bad enough. Not that Dean minds depravity in general, in fact he’s all for it (go depravity!), but there’s a time and a place and this is most definitely not it.

“How about you keep your twisted fantasies to yourself from now on, Andy? I don’t want to have to bleach my brain every time I talk to you.”

“Sure thing; but take it from me, you don’t know what you’re missing. Some of the wildest nights of my life were with the most unlikely ladies. Good tip; look out for the quiet ones, they go crazy once the lights are out and the pants are off.” He winks at Dean then chuckles. All Dean can do is follow Andy into the marquee and watch his shoulders shake as Andy laughs silently to himself.

They’re all set up and ready to go by the time Novak arrives. It’s always the same way. He walks to his workstation in silence, stiff and serious, looking more like he’s about to take the stand in court than bake a batch of cookies. For the hundredth time Dean wishes their benches were further apart; he’d quietly sounded out Pam about it a few weeks back but she told him it was impossible - though she never said why. Damn it; he thought he’d gotten over this, at least a bit, from being forced to spend time with Novak at Sarah’s house. But the tightness in his jaw and the curl of his fists by his sides say otherwise.

Remember Novak hasn’t actually done anything wrong, Dean tells himself. He doesn’t make people wait for him like Crowley does. In fact Castiel is always scrupulously on time.  So what if he misses the morning meetings as if he’s too good to hang out with the rest of them? Or if he’s too proud to stand there yawning and complaining, like stomped over shit like everyone else does? Castiel never looks like shit. Dean tries to picture him, dishevelled and bleary eyed, with his hair stuck up all over the place (more stuck up than it already is). He can’t do it. It does not compute. Somehow it just makes Dean annoyed as he watches Novak positioning, and then re-positioning, the stacked glass bowls on the front of his work bench.

There were a couple of nods of acknowledgement this morning, which is new, directed at those brave souls who dared to say good morning to him (and bless Jody for being so kind – he doesn’t deserve the attention). He looks as dour and serious as ever, as he inclines his head politely. There’s no glance spared for anyone else.

God! Just the sight of the man raises his hackles. Even something as innocuous as Novak tying on his apron irritates Dean; long thin fingers (that have clearly never done a hard day’s work in their life) carefully pull on white straps, one, two, three times, to check they’re secure. Dean would place bets on those nails being manicured.

The subjects of Dean’s contemplation disappear into the deep pocket of Novak’s apron and he’s sunk so deep in his train of thought he almost complains out loud. It takes longer than it should for Dean to put two and two together and come up with; oh shit I’m looking at the front of his apron... that means... Dean’s eyes flick upwards to find he’s being watched. Novak’s big eyes blink slowly. He can’t help but look back down at Novak’s hands buried in that pocket which just so happens to fall right in the vicinity of... well... yeah... right there. STOP LOOKING DEAN FOR FUCKS SAKE!

Dean wants to shout ‘It was innocent’; a totally innocent and idle hand staring session. Not crotch staring: never that, - not ever! Oh God. If the earth wanted to open up and swallow him at this exact moment, with his face heating up and his mouth flapping helplessly like a fish on dry land, he’d welcome it. Bring on the Hellmouth right here and now. Shit.

If this was someone else, anyone else that had caught Dean as good as checking them out, he’d be breaking out the cheeky come-ons by now, but that wasn’t what was going on. There was no way Dean could do that with Novak; he’d never understand the joke. Dean’s brain searches in vain for something to say but his mind is a blank. Panic swallows his thoughts and all he can do is smile weakly and give a rather pathetic shrug.

Novak’s head tilts a little to the side and the ever present crease between his brows deepens. Dean braces himself.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says. Dean blinks, stays quiet, lost inside the closed feedback loop of his mortification. “I hope you slept well.”

What is going on? Has Dean lost his mind? Has Novak?

“I think it could be a challenging day.” Novak goes on, as if Dean isn’t staring at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. “Because it’s going to be hot later on today,” he helpfully supplies, and uh-oh the frown is growing deeper.

“Yes.” Dean almost shouts as his brain functions kick back into action. “Forecast said it could hit the high 90s by lunchtime. Hope these fancy refrigerators hold up.” Dean expects Novak to turn away but he doesn’t. Whatever urge has prompted this attempt at human communication, he isn’t done with it yet.

“At least it’s not desserts this week.”As Novak talks he turns to look at the front of the marquee where Pam is bringing in the judges, dragging them out of their nice air conditioned room, to get the proceedings started. “I wouldn’t like to be tempering chocolate in this” Castiel’s voice falters. There is a moment, a fraction of a second, where something dangerous and dark flashes over his face, before it’s gone, fallen back to blank neutrality. It was quick. Dean only caught it because he was staring so intently at Novak, amazed at the burst of civility.

Dean follows Novak’s gaze – before he drops it and turns away, suddenly abandoning their proto-conversation mid-sentence in favour of standing quietly at his work station. What a weirdo – and all he can find at the end of it is the new AD, Bela. She looks back. There’s surprise on her face, at first, but she masks it with a smile and a polite incline of her head, which Castiel does not look up to see.

“Okay, people,” Crowley shouts to make sure he has everyone’s undivided attention. “Today we make cookies, better known as biscuits on my side of the pond.”

“It sounds simple,” Missouri jumps in. “But don’t be fooled. Anyone can make a decent chocolate chip cookie so we’re looking for excellence in this bake. If you’re going to make something simple, it has to be perfect.”

“And if you’re trying something complicated, it better work.” Crowley manages to imply the “or else” tacked on to the end of that sentence. “Make the most of your signature bakes because we’ll be making chocolate teacakes later,” he adds with a dark chuckle. “Good luck getting them to set.”

The contestants exchange worried looks. Most had never heard of chocolate teacakes before and, by the end of the challenge, everyone wished they never had. It was a like a mutated version of a moon-pie; cookie-dough for a base, a dome of marshmallow on top, and covered all over in chocolate. A perfect task for the relentless mid-day heat that was amped up even more by the ovens and set-lighting.

It wasn’t even a matter of baking prowess; no one can temper chocolate in such ridiculous temperatures. Everyone’s output is poor. Even Castiel was hampered by the heat. Dean was sure he heard some cussing from the workstation in front. What a shame that Castiel’s reliably icy personality couldn’t cool the air.

“I’m very disappointed in you all,” Crowley chastises as soon as the cameras are on him. He shakes his head, hands-on-hips, and clicks his tongue at the puddles of chocolate and runny marshmallow, bases too soggy or burnt to a crisp. It’s a line-up of gloopy disappointment for everyone. Some are down-right disgusting. Andy’s is nothing short of a disaster; lumps of unbaked dough floating in a sea of molten chocolate shot through with soggy lumps of marshmallow. It looks like something you wouldn’t want to find on a bathroom floor, let alone, served up on a plate.

“My goodness...” was all Missouri could bring herself to say.

“Is there any excuse for presenting this to me, Mr Gallagher?” Crowley asks when Andy raises his hand, after being placed last in the blind judging.

Andy, bless his permanent state of chilled-out-ness, shrugs nonchalantly and admits, “I can’t say there is Mr Crowley.” Before he adds with a shit-eating grin, “but then you did ask us to make it. Perhaps we should introduce England to some better snacks?”

Crowley snarls, grumbles something under his breath, and shoots daggers at Dean when he laughs and tries to hide it behind his hands. Missouri also tries to hide a smile, and Jody and Charlie are slowly turning bright pink as they bite back their laughter. A few of the older contestants shake their heads at the impertinence. There are some sniggers from the crew as well. Bela, standing off to the side, out of view of the judges, gives Andy an encouraging thumbs-up. No way is that little exchange getting left behind on the cutting room floor.

Funny as it is, it proves to be Andy’s undoing, and to a lot of people’s disappointment but absolutely no one’s surprise, he comes last and leaves the competition at the end of the day.

“Come to the bar and celebrate my triumphant failure,” he begs as they head back to the hotel. At this moment Dean can’t think of anything beyond taking a shower, and says as much. “But, Dean, it’s my last night. You aren’t going to abandon me when it’s my last opportunity to abuse the free bar are you?” How could Dean argue with such sound reasoning? He agrees and Andy calls him a “good man” before he goes on his way with an almost obnoxiously cheerful spring in his step.

Twenty minutes under a cool stream of water (in a way better shower than the one he was used to back home – water pressure to die for), and some fresh clothes puts Dean back together. He feels good by the time he heads to the hotel bar and he arrives to find an impromptu leaving party in full swing. Someone’s moved the tables about, persuaded the bar tender to crank up the old-timey background music, and Andy spins Mrs Lucas around to the jive beat.

 He spots Pam as she heads towards the door.

“Leaving so soon?” Dean asks. “Aren’t you even going to buy me a drink?”

“I’m buying all the drinks,” she reminds him with a wink. He moves past her and she catches his arm and detains him for a few seconds. “Did you know Castiel’s gone home already?” Pam says, pulling a sad sympathetic face – as if Dean cared in the slightest what Novak does outside the competition. “Got straight in his car and drove off, didn’t even stop to change his clothes.”

“Isn’t that what he usually does?” Dean says, distracted by the music coming from the bar.

She looks at him appraisingly. “Not generally, no.” Could have fooled Dean, no one ever sees hide or hair of the guy, before or after a shoot. “Though he does sometimes prefer to stay in a different hotel, says he doesn’t want to be distracted.”

“Sometimes stays in a different hotel...” Dean repeats back, confused. “Not all the time then?”

She shakes her head “no” and puts a hand to Dean’s cheek, pets him for a moment, then lets him go with a resigned sigh. “I do wish Castiel would take more advantage of our hospitality. He could do with a chance to relax and enjoy what life has to offer.”

Dean has to purse his lips together to stop a laugh from bubbling up and spilling out of his mouth. He honestly can’t imagine anyone less suited to “relaxing” than Castiel Novak. “Whatever you say, Pam,” he says weakly. She shakes her head as she turns to leave and he swears he hears her mutter “silly boy,” as she makes like a tree.

“I’m going to miss this,” Andy says as he comes over to Dean. He hugs the nearest part of the bar then dips down to plant a sloppy kiss on its dark grain. Thank God this is a nice hotel and not some dive bar and Andy isn’t likely to catch something nasty from slobbering all over it.

Talking of slobbering; Andy’s eyes light up like its Christmas come early as the new AD walks in.

“Bela,” Andy calls. He waves her over, leans over towards Dean and says, conspiratorially, “I invited her to join the fun. I don’t think she knows many of the other red-coats yet, so I thought it would be good to spread the love a little.”

Bela looks pleased as she thanks Andy for the invite. She orders a beer and takes a long drink, making Andy’s eyes almost jump out of his head as he watches, before she sighs and smacks her lips together loudly in appreciation.

“I needed that,” she says. “Seriously, I don’t know how you guys manage to get anything done in that marquee, it’s roasting. You deserve an award or something for putting up with it.”

“Some of us manage better than others,” says Andy. He sounds a little more regretful now about going home. He suddenly makes an “ergh” noise as Charlie appears, out of nowhere and wraps her arms around his neck. She strangle-hugs him fiercly, as if her life depends on it, though it’s more like Andy’s life depends on her letting go as he starts to turn an alarming shade of red.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, backs off and looks sheepish as soon as she realises. She looks a little teary, her eyes all shiny and sad. The two of them had really hit it off over the last few months.

“Aw come here girl,” Andy says and pulls her into a hug; the recent strangulation forgotten in the face of his friend’s distress.  Her lip wobbles. “Let’s get you a drink,” he says and waves at the barkeep. He whispers in Dean’s ear “hold the fort for me would you, Dean?” with a nod towards Bela, who is looking on sympathetically while she drums her fingers against the bottle in her hand. Andy shepherds Charlie away to a free table nearby with a comforting arm slung around her shoulders.

If Dean was in the mood, this is where he’d slap on a cheeky grin, and drag out some good old Winchester charm, touch her hand maybe or make an innuendo laden comment. From the looks Andy throws in Dean’s direction it’s clear he thinks that’s on the cards. He looks at Bela and smiles. She smiles back and it’s casual, happy, polite, but not interested in that way. Maybe he’s tired from the day (it has been long and difficult just like Novak predicted) or maybe he just isn’t in the mood; but there’s nothing out of the ordinary in the look, no spark, no heat, just a friendly smile on a friendly face, and he can tell that Bela is thinking the exact same thing.

She starts to laugh and Dean can’t help but join in. The burst of laughter earns them suspicious glances from around the room, which just makes them laugh even more, until they are breathless and leaning on each other for support as they recover.

“Glad we got that out the way nice and early.” Her eyes sparkle kindly and she flashes a set of perfect teeth as she grins up at him.

“Yeah, it’s a huge relief,” he says sarcastically. He’s instantly at ease with her, with no reason to posture and play the charmer. “You want to sit down?”

“Why not?” Bela says once she can breathe properly. “We should probably pretend to flirt and give them something to whisper about behind out backs. Then at least we might get some peace and quiet.”

He spots an empty table over in the corner and leads her over to it. “Do people whisper about you a lot then?”

“Oh, all the time,” she says as she flops into a chair, slouching back to prop her feet on a nearby unclaimed seat. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed them talking about you too, Dean. I’ve been here a day and I’ve hardly heard anything apart from Dean this and Dean that.” She mimics snapping mouth movements with her hands as she talks.

“Can’t say I have, is that true?” She nods her head and Dean can tell she’s completely in earnest. He’s intrigued, since he’s never thought he was that interesting – certainly not interesting enough to be a topic of conversation for the whole of the red-coated crew.

She sends him a disbelieving look. “You’re not seriously telling me you haven’t noticed that half the crew are mad in love with you?”

“Only half?” he mocks.

She raises her eyebrows and smirks mischievously. “Yeah, because the other half thinks there’s something going on between you and Castiel.”

Dean chokes on the beer in his mouth. Foamy liquid rushes up and out of his nose (which really fucking hurts by the way) as he splutters and tries to recover from the horror of that thought. Novak and him... Him and Novak... He’d rather die. Okay, that might be a bit over-dramatic but he’d definitely rather be kicked in the nuts a couple of times, for sure.

“What?” he wheezes, looks at her through watery eyes. “You’re not serious? Tell me you’re not fucking serious.”

She’s watching his reaction closely, eyes narrowed for the briefest moment before her expression smoothes out and she shrugs, holding her hands up in surrender. “It’s just a rumour, Dean, something about the huge UST going on between you two.” She takes a swig then points at him as if that will convince him she’s telling the truth. “Apparently it’s really obvious in the dailies.”

“What the hell is UST?”

“Unresolved sexual tension.” She wiggles her eyebrows and chuckles as he starts to choke again. She slaps him on the back, quite unhelpfully, and says “there, there, Dean, it’s only a bit of gossip. Though I have to say I’m glad that...” She looks like she’s about to say something more but stops and quickly changes tack. “I take it from this,” she gestures vaguely towards him, “that it isn’t true.”

“Hell no,” he says, affronted by the very idea. “We can’t stand each other.”

“So how well do you know him then?”

“Not well but as much as I’d ever want to. I had to spend a few days staying in the same house as Novak and it’s not something I ever want to do again. He’s an arrogant asshat. No one else in the competition can stand him; unless you count Crowley who I’m pretty sure just sees a giant dollar sign whenever he looks at Novak.”

She smiles, relaxes even further back into her chair and runs her fingers along the edge of the table for a few seconds, in silence, while Dean drinks. “I can’t pretend to be sorry you think that, and I have to say I’m relieved to find the rumour isn’t true. People tend to be blinded by his wealth, or frightened by his lofty manners and status, until they buy into believing what he wants them to believe. I’m glad you see through it.”

“You talk like you know him,” Dean says. The strange exchange he witnessed in the marquee had been niggling at the back of his mind. Now it seems obvious. “You know something, something about Novak, something that he doesn’t want other people to know.” He tries his best not to look too eager while he crosses his fingers, out of sight, in hope of something horrifyingly embarrassing.

She nods. Glances around before she shuffles her seat closer, the music and general hubbub in the bar providing a semblance of privacy. “I do. I know him better than most people. We grew up together like brother and sister.”

“But how..?” Dean starts to question.

“You noticed what happened this morning.” Dean nods an acceptance of the allegation. “I thought so. I haven’t seen Castiel in a very very long time and I was surprised to find him here. It’s not the sort of thing he would usually take part in. I don’t remember him having much of an interest in cooking when we were growing up, so maybe he won’t be in the competition much longer.” She says hopefully.

Dean pulls a face, sorry to disappoint but unable to voice the lie. “He’s quite a good cook actually,” he confesses. There’s a rumour going around that he had some sort of coaching before the competition started.” She tries to disguise it behind a casual smile but Dean doesn’t miss the hurt and disappointment that travels over her face; there and gone again in a moment. “Him being here isn’t a problem is it?”

She flicks dark blonde hair away from her shoulders with an irritated little shake of her head before regaining her previous calm.

“I won’t be chased away from a decent job by Castiel Novak.” Her voice is firm, her words clipped and short, eyes narrow, glinting sharp and hard as flint. “If he doesn’t want to see me, he’ll have to go. We’re not friends, but I have no reason to avoid him. He has caused me a lot of trouble but it’s in the past. I’m willing to forget, even if I can’t forgive him.”

Her look is pointed. It screams intrigue and Dean needs to know what is hidden behind it. He tries to come up with a vaguely appropriate way of asking for all the juicy/horrid/sordid details when Bela surprises him by volunteering the information freely, without hesitation.

She sits forward and gives a sad, regret filled sigh before she starts. “Castiel’s father was a wonderful man,” she says. “He was a great friend to my parents. They died when I was very young and he took me in and raised me like I was his own child. Sent me to the best schools and put me through college. He always said he wanted me to take on a role in Novak Corp. It’s what I wanted too. It’s what we all wanted; at least, that’s what I thought.”

There is tightness to her words. They stick in her throat as she tries to cover the emotions rising to the surface. The effort comes too late; the soft shimmer of tears at the corner of her eye gives the game away. It’s clear to Dean she isn’t as resigned as she pretends.

“Apparently it wasn’t what Castiel wanted.” She takes a drink of her beer then sets about peeling the damp label from the bottle, keeps her eyes down and away from Dean’s. Constructing walls to hide the hurt – Dean recognises the tactic, it’s one he knows well. “I don’t know why he did it,” she goes on. “Maybe it was jealousy or something like that, but after his father passed, Castiel refused to honour his father’s wishes. He cut me off,” she laughs and it’s a bitter burst of noise. “He even cancelled my credit cards while I was travelling in Italy. He stranded me there and if I hadn’t been with friends I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Jesus! Novak’s such an asshole.” He blows out an explosive breath. It cracks open the tension of the moment and relieves some of the heaviness that presses down on them. He leans back as he straightens his arms and stretches away from the table, his chair rocks back, tips until he’s balanced on the two back legs. A loud crack and creak of protest has him coming back down to earth with a bang.

Bela is not done. She waits, makes sure she has his attention, then continues. “The old man hadn’t left me any money you see; no lump sum. But then I doubt he imagined Castiel would be so cruel as to stop everything dead like that. I suppose in the long term a job at the corporation would see me good for life, so he probably thought a formal inheritance wouldn’t be needed. For my part, more than anything, I just wanted to give something back to the family that had supported and cared for me for most of my life. But when it came to it, Castiel refused, point blank, to honour the arrangement. So I am poor and have to make my own way in the world,” she shrugs.

Dean stares at her, horrified. “I don’t know how you can be so calm.” He knew Novak was a giant ass, but this, to ignore his father’s last dying wish out of jealousy and petty vengeance was unbelievable. “He deserves to be called out on it... or punched in his miserable face... maybe both?”

She shakes her head. “It all seems like a long time ago now, and I’m not so hard done by. I have plenty of friends who’ve helped me out. I have a job, it might be on a reality TV show, but it’s a job, and beggars can’t be choosers, as they say.” She makes a valiant effort at looking cheerful but there’s dullness in her eyes now that wasn’t there before. The memories must be painful no matter how she tries to hide it behind jokes and smiles, brushing it off as unimportant with a casual wave of her hand.

Her story makes Dean feel ill and angry in equal parts. It doesn’t make sense to him how someone could disregard their family; ignore the unspoken promises to care for each other and keep each other safe. It goes against everything Dean knows, everything he believes and values in this all too frequent suck-fest of a life. Family sticks together but it’s not all about blood. Dean loves Sam and would die for him without a doubt but he’d do the same for Bobby, or Ellen, or Jo, maybe even Ash or Garth (ok maybe not those guys, but you get the general idea).  

Then there’s Novak, born with a silver spoon in his mouth (and a giant stick up his ass), who has benefitted from all the advantages money can buy but isn’t willing to share any of it with the people who should be closest to him? What the fuck does he do with all his riches? Hoard it up like a miser, decorate his basement with gold bars so he can go and stare at them whenever he wants, or does he takes baths in tubs filled with hundred dollar bills, rub them all over his... never mind. The point is Dean is disgusted, and any tiny little shred of tolerance he had for Novak disappears like a puff of smoke in the wind.  

Dean’s face hardens and he grips that table with his fingers, trying to divert the sudden violent impulse that courses hot under his skin at the injustice of it. Bela blinks. She looks surprised, as if she didn’t expect the story to have such an effect.

“How can you stand it?” Dean asks. “Novak’s strutting around out there without a care in the world while you struggle. Because what? He’s worried that Daddy didn’t love him enough and has to take it out on you?” He spits the words then swallows mouthfuls of beer to wash the sharp taste of bile from the back of his tongue. “Jesus, Bela, isn’t there anything you can do? People should know what sort of asshole he really is.”

“There isn’t anything to be done,” she says simply. “Castiel is rich. He can do whatever he wants, and that’s just the way of the world I’m afraid. Who would I tell? Who, that could do anything about it, would believe me? You might not have seen it for yourself, but Castiel can please people when it’s worth his while. His pride in the family name might even be considered a virtue by some, and he can be generous, charitable even, when it serves his purpose. These aren’t all negative characteristics. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to make it public now. And while I remember the kindness of his father, I can’t bring myself to do damage to the family name. No,” she smiles. “I can’t do that. I’d rather put it behind me and look to the future”

“Don’t know how you can be so cool about it,” he says as he raises his beer bottle in salute to her. “But I hope it all works out. You deserve it after what that asshole did to you.” She lifts her own; the green glass clinks as the necks of the bottles meet.

She lifts her head proudly. “That I do, my dear fellow,” she drawls sarcastically. “Now let’s drink and talk about better things.”

“Deal,” Dean says, then immediately breaks it. “What about Novak’s sister? Is he jealous of her as well or is that only for outsiders?”

“Jealous of Anna? Good God no,” she laughs at the idea. “Castiel might have his faults, God does he have his faults, but lack of affection for his little sister isn’t one of them.” There is a sneer in her tone, a little twist to her mouth, that wasn’t there before. Dean doesn’t think anything of it. It’s not surprising that she might harbour some resentment towards a girl that got everything Bela was denied simply because she didn’t have the right blood in her veins, or the right name.

“Is she like Novak?”

“I heard she’s grown to be very like her brother, very proud. We were good friends once-upon-a-time though and she was really sweet when she was younger, interested and into everything, but you know how teenagers can be. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“Yeah,” he says and smiles at the memory of being dragged around museums while Sam babbled about everything he saw. “My brother Sam was the same when he was a kid.”

“He was at the pre-show party wasn’t he? The crew caught me up on a few things,” she explains before he can ask how she knew that. “He attracted a few admirers that night from what I hear.” She smirks and cocks an eyebrow. The mood instantly lifts.

“Do you know Sarah Blake?”

“Only by reputation,” she says after downing the last dregs of beer. “I hear she’s good at business.  I don’t blame her at all for taking the post at the Corporation that should have been mine– I doubt she even knows about that.”

“She seems to be a really great girl,” Dean admits. “It’s strange that someone with such a good head on their shoulders is such good friends with Novak.”

Bela turns thoughtful, presses the cool glass of her empty beer bottle against her lips while she thinks. “Like I said, he isn’t completely bad. Besides, I think she’s from old money too – not as much as the Novaks but enough to make her an equal in his eyes I guess – worth making an effort for. And you know,” she says with a wink and a renewed sparkle of amusement in her eye. “I think I can even remember him being quite charming, just once, a very long time ago.”

Dean blows out a derogatory ‘pfft’ noise at that.

She leans forward across the table, beckons Dean closer, conspiratorially. “Do you want to know a secret?”

“About Novak? If it’s scandalous definitely.”

“Do you know anything about the location of the next shoot?”

“Not a clue. Why?”

“It’s a place called Rosings; Rosings Park.”

“It’s a hotel isn’t it?” Dean interrupts.

“It’s a hotel now,” she says. “A very high end place but that’s not the point.” Dean mumbles an apology under her mock exasperation. He mimes locking his lips and throwing the imaginary key over his shoulder so she knows he’ll wait for her to finish. “It’s the family home of Castiel’s mother. His aunt still owns it. She’s very old school, very grand, keeps close ties to the part of the family that stayed in Europe; a load of crusty old dukes and duchesses and the like.”

“As gossip goes, that’s kind of a letdown to be honest.” Dean complains.

She slaps his hand playfully. “Oh hush. I haven’t finished yet. The aunt has a daughter and for as long as I can remember, it’s been said that Castiel will marry her and bring all the money together under the Novak name.”

Now that was something worth gossiping about. “Really?” he asks gleefully.

She nods eagerly, bites her bottom lip and shrugs in a child-like gesture, as if she knows she’s being naughty telling him family secrets. “Cross-my-heart,” she says mirroring the words with a criss-cross action over her chest. “Castiel Novak is one day headed for wedded bliss with Daphne de Bourgh, so they can be stinking rich and miserable together. The only question is when.”

“Well it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he joins in. “And when the time comes I’ll wish them a dozen fat babies, who grow up into little princes and princesses and squander all their money for them.”

“I’ll drink to that... or I would if I had any left,” she adds looking forlornly at the empty bottle in her hand.

Something else occurs to him and he mutters, “Poor Meg,” under his breath, though he doesn’t mean it for a second. He only wishes he could be there to witness her disappointment first hand when she finds out all her effort was for nothing; it’s going to be spectacular.

Bela doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t want to follow it up, and the conversation moves on as Andy joins them bringing a now composed and happy Charlie, and a much needed round of drinks.

*** * * * * * ***

 

When the invitation arrives in all its glory, complete with swirly gold lettering on tasteful cream-coloured card, Dean’s first thought is that it’s a mistake. It has to be. He runs his fingers over the bumps of the embossed Novak Corporation logo and goggles at the sight of his name, hand-written in a curly script, at the top.

Why would Novak, of all people, invite Dean Winchester to a party? Actually, scratch that, he had no idea why Novak would throw a party when he’d already made it damn clear he disliked everyone and everything to do with the Bake-Off (just as they all disliked him).

After the initial shock, the first thing Dean does is grab his phone and punch the speed dial number for his brother. Only to find out that, not only was Sam already in on the whole thing, but had already emailed to accept his own invite.

“It’s a ball and it was Sarah’s idea.” Sam sounds pleased over the crackly phone line. “She told me all about it a couple of days ago. It’s good PR for the company and she hopes it might improve relations between Castiel and some of the other contestants now that it looks like he’ll be in it for the long haul.” He sounds less sure on that point. “Or something like that. It made total sense when she explained it,” Sam assures him.

“You couldn’t have warned me, Sam?” Dean sighed. “Now I’m going to have to think of an excuse not to go. I don’t suppose you’d forgive me if I just put ‘I’m not coming because you’re a rude fucking prick who ruins peoples’ lives,’ on the RSVP?”

Sam tells him, “no, because that would make you a prick as well, wouldn’t it?” But there’s no heat in the accusation.

Sam had been just as shocked by Novak’s heartless behaviour to Bela. But Sam had Sarah to consider and Dean could understand that Sam’s opinion was likely to be tempered by his regard for her – not to mention his innate sympathy and good manners – which made him more cautious in outright declaring Novak to be the villain Dean knew he was.

“Are you seriously telling me that you don’t want to go?” Sam asks. “Sarah’s already texted to say that nearly everyone confirmed straight away. She’s really happy about it.”

“Texting this morning and talking a few days ago?” Dean teases. “Sounds like things are going pretty well with Sarah then. Are you two crazy kids an official thing now?”

“None of your business, Dean,” says an exasperated Sam. They’ve had this conversation too many times already. Sam doesn’t want to put labels on the relationship, says he doesn’t even know if it is a relationship yet – apparently it’s “too early to tell.” Dean, in his role as the mature older brother, makes kissy noises down the line until he’s laughing so much he has to stop.

Sam waits patiently for Dean to finish. “They’re holding it at Sarah’s house. In the grounds and they’ve put up some marquees or something.”

“More marquees, that’s great, no really, that’s just what everyone still in the competition needs,” he says sarcastically.

“If it makes you feel any better, all the production team have been invited, along with some of Sarah’s local friends. It won’t just be the Bake-Off contestants rattling around all alone.”

“Yeah?” Dean perks up.

It definitely put a different spin on the whole thing if Bela was going to be there. They’d stayed in touch after Andy’s impromptu leaving party. It had turned into one of the most fun drunken nights he’d had in a long time. He still found himself laughing at the recollection of sneaking into the hotel kitchens to pilfer midnight snacks (at Andy’s insistence) before a grouchy chef chased them out shouting, “the kitchen is open all night assholes! Dial for room service if you want something!” It was a while since Dean had made a new friend; just about everyone in his life had been there when he was a kid. This was a new experience and he was enjoying it. He really like Bela, and the prospect of sharing a laugh together at Novak’s expense, was just an added bonus (one that gave him a fierce sense of satisfaction).

“Yes,” Sam confirmed, not needing to be told where Dean’s mind had wandered off to. “You and Bela can gossip and giggle together to your heart’s content.”

“Well if everyone else is going it would look weird if I didn’t, especially if you’re there as well,” Dean reasons. “I suppose I could go.”

“Dean, you’re so transparent it’s almost funny,” Sam laughs at him.

“So are you,” he snaps back, which just makes Sam laugh even more. He doesn’t stop until Dean hangs up the phone.

Dean stares at the spectacle before him. A sprawl of perfect white tents, set in a cross formation covering the grass at the side of Sarah’s shiny house. Each one draped in strings of yellow lights that blink and shimmer like candles, or fireflies, or some poetic crap like that. He can’t see much of what hides inside them but the main entrance is festooned in swags and folds of dark red velvet – that remind him of something not entirely appropriate or in keeping with the occasion – with a couple of ornate gold chairs to add even more grandeur to the occasion.

He turns to Sam in confusion. “What the hell is this?”

Sam himself looks a little taken aback and like he needs a moment to recover from the over the top opulence of it all. “Sarah decided to go with an eighteenth century theme, didn’t I tell you that?”

“No, you sure as hell didn’t.”

Sam gives him a trademark bitch-face. “Its... er... Rococo?” It’s unsure, phrased as a question.

“Ro-what-now?” Dean asks. He gets ignored.

They walk over lush springy grass towards the source of the music that carries in the evening air. It’s still warm, even though the sun is low, in a violently pink and orange sky, and just about to drop out of sight below the jagged line of the tree tops.

“I think the theme was Pam’s idea,” Sam tells him, though he doesn’t remember asking for an explanation. “Because of all the old houses you guys are filming at.”

Makes sense, he supposes, as much as anything to do with the Bake-Off makes sense. Dean’s more of a beer-and-bacon happy-hour kinda guy so he has no clue why people insist on having themes or why they would go to all that effort to decorate a space for a whole heap of people to get drunk in. To be honest he didn’t think people really did this sort of thing; on TV shows, sure, but not real life. But this wasn’t his real life was it? Not for him. It was Sarah’s life; Novak’s life; probably Pam’s too; but it had nothing to do with Dean’s.

“You didn’t think to tell me this little bit of information before-hand,” Dean asks.

At least it explained why Sam was dressed up to the nines. Dean had put it down to wanting to impress Sarah and had been mocking Sam soundly about it all the way from the motel. He looks down at himself then glances around. Watches, as a few more cabs pull up and deposit their precious cargo onto the crunchy gravel of the driveway. There are way too many suits and evening dresses on display. Shit, not again.  

“I told you to make an effort.”

“I thought you were just being, you know, you. If you’d told me it was going to be all fancy suits and champagne fountains, I might have taken you a bit more seriously. And anyway I did make an effort,” Dean argues. “What do you want me to do, put on a ball gown?” He’s wearing his best clothes. The exact same thing he wore to Jo’s Birthday at the Roadhouse a few weeks back. The sort of thing he would wear on a date – not that he has any of those these days – a dark pair of jeans and a neat black button-down. Hell, he’d swapped out his usual scuffed and comfortable boots in favour of the only pair of shoes he owns and he’d even made sure they were clean and polished.

“Sure Cinderella,” Sam snarks. “That’s exactly what I want you to do. I’ll just wait here while you go find your fairy Godmother shall I? Ask her for something in pink that will really bring out your eyes” Dean pushes him and Sam giggles as he stumbles and wheels to the side before righting himself and falling back in beside his brother. “By the way, I don’t think there’s going to be any champagne fountains,” Sam says dryly while Dean fidgets. “And you look fine. Hey...” Sam nods over to a car that’s just pulled up. “Mr and Mrs Lucas aren’t dressed up either so you’re not the only one.”

“They’re also about a hundred years old so that’s not a huge comfort.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says at last and propels Dean along by the elbow, impatient to find Sarah. 

Once they are through the overly ostentatious reception area, their names are checked off a list by a burly security guy, who pats them down to check for concealed weapons – not really, though it wouldn’t have surprised Dean in the slightest if he had. The enthusiastic helpfulness of the staff is however, in Dean’s opinion, just the wrong side of creepy. He can’t wait to hear what Bela has to say about it. He grins to himself in anticipation of the fun they’re going to have tonight at Novak’s expense.

“I’m so glad you could both make it.” Sarah pulls each of them, in turn, into an affectionate embrace. She’s as warm and welcoming to Dean as ever but her eyes, and her smile, stay fixed on Sam. She draws him away soon after, on the pretence of introducing him to some neighbour-or-other who has a big name law firm. Dean happily watches them go. He can only tolerate them making goo-goo eyes at each other for so long. He fully expects to find them frenching in the bushes before the night is through, like a couple of hormonal teenagers at home-coming.

He ventures further into the marquee. Has to duck to avoid low hanging drapes, dodge and weave around an assault course built of candelabra, huge throw pillows, and ugly throne-like chairs, in his search for the main room and some familiar faces.

The first ones he stumbles on are not at all to Dean’s liking. Novak and the-ugly-sisters are half hidden in shadow. Positioned to the side of the room, out of the way but with a direct line of sight to the entrance, as if they don’t want anyone too close, yet want to keep an eye on the people passing. Hopefully Sarah’s invited someone worthy of their attention and they’re just keeping watch for them. They’re all dressed in dark clothes and with their little beady eyes, they strongly resemble a line of crows, watching and waiting to pick over the bones of some poor old animal that’s just met its maker.

Glaring evils at incoming guests is probably not the best approach to take if this party, or “ball,” as Sam calls it, is supposed to be a charm offensive. But it is exactly what Dean has come to expect from them. He sends them a heartfelt smirk as soon as he feels Novak’s eyes on him, then turns, pointedly, and scans the room hoping to find Bela’s face among the crowd. He’s disappointed when he doesn’t find her but it’s still early.

He looks back at the gloomy corner of the room and briefly considers going to say hi. Not only is Novak the official host of the evening (though everyone knew it was Sarah that had taken the trouble to arrange it), which would be reason enough for Dean to make the effort if it was anyone else, but he’s bound to say something typically awful that Dean and Bela can laugh about for the rest of the night.

Novak is still staring. Dean can feel the weight of his scrutiny as Novak’s eyes move over him and take in Dean’s casual clothes. Even in the shadow, Dean can see when the perpetual frown deepens in unfavourable judgement.

The bar is big and well stocked, and Dean leans back against it for a while as he gets his bearings and waits for his friends to arrive. There’s a small dance floor surrounded by circular tables. It’s quite a big room but the low ceiling and warm rich colours make it feel intimate. It’s too early for dancing and the current sound track seems to be mainly classic jazz, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald and the like, their deep throaty tones making the place feel more like some retro nightclub than a tent plonked in the middle of a lawn.  

Jody finds him before too long.  

“Isn’t it all fabulous?” Jody says. Her eyes are already shiny from just half a glass of wine and she looks very fine in a dark blue gown.

“If you like this sort of thing,” he replies. He eyes still move over the crowd but he assiduously avoids the far corner and Novak’s stares. As promised, there are red-coats in the crowd, some mingling, others clustered together in little groups. They’re difficult to spot without their regulation crew jackets but what he can see, is that Bela isn’t among them.

“Andy told me Bela couldn’t come,” Charlie starts as she flops down into the plush seat beside him. She wriggles a little to get comfy and miraculously doesn’t spill anything from the fluted champagne glass in her hand that tilts dangerously. She has a waiter in tow who positions a wine cooler by their table, a half full bottle nestled among the ice inside. “Something about some business she has to sort out in California that needed taking care of ASAP.” She shrugs. “Though I doubt it would have been so urgent if the invite hadn’t been from a certain someone we all know,” she says and glances over her shoulder.

The whole table turns, as one, to look at the sour-faced group perched in the corner. The action does not go unnoticed since Novak is still looking Dean’s way. At least he has the decency to turn away after that.

“Andy will be here later,” Charlie says. She has to lean in closer to be heard over the music which, at some secret signal (that people are starting to get drunk enough to dance) has gone up a notch, as the DJ moves up through music history to the Sixties. Dean might personally prefer The Stones but really you can’t argue with The Beatles; its toe-tapping stuff. “It’s not likely Andy would turn down a free bar.” Charlie is saying. “And he said if we all drink enough on Novak’s buck it would go some way to making amends for what he did to poor Bela.”

“I think we’d have to drink the state dry to even make a dent in that debt,” Dean grouches. More disappointed than he’d like to let on, Dean spends some time glaring at the back of Castiel’s head.

Charlie nods and makes noises of agreement but Jody seems less convinced. She turns a critical eye on Dean as he and Charlie take turns to mock, none too quietly, the man who is currently paying for their drinks. A few meters away, Novak exudes his special brand of stony hostility.

As soon as Charlie leaves them, to zig-zag her way over to the bar, Jody pounces. “Castiel looks at you a lot you know, Dean.”

He throws her a cheeky look. “Well, who wouldn’t want to look at this if they had the opportunity?”

“I’m being serious, Dean,” she snaps back, and whoa, he’s never seen Jody lose her cool before. He suddenly feels like he’s about to get arrested; like he’s seeing the sheriff for the first time, instead of the baker. His smile drops from his face as she goes on. “It’s just my opinion, but he takes a lot more notice of you than of anyone else, even his friends, even Sarah.”

“Well it’s a free country.” He has no idea why she’s telling him this or why she seems so angry about it. “He can look if he wants but I have no idea why; it’s probably just his way of showing his disapproval. Maybe he hopes he’ll catch me doing something bad so he can get me disqualified from the competition. I wouldn’t put it past him. We all know what he’s like.”

“Do we?” she asks. “Do we really know what he’s like? Because I’m starting to think there might be another reason for all the staring.”

Dean pulls a disgusted face. He sits back in his chair and tries to move out of the line of fire. “I really don’t care what the reason is, Jody; as long as he stays as far away from me as possible, I don’t care if he wants to stare at me, or punch me, have me tied up and dropped into the ocean from ten thousand feet.”

“Don’t you think you might be being a bit unfair?”

“Unfair to Novak?” Dean nearly chokes around the words. “After everything we know about him, how am I being unfair? How fair was he when he stole Bela’s money?”

Jody reaches out and covers Dean’s hand with her own. Her voice drops low and she says quietly, “I know you like Bela, Dean. I like her too. But we’ve only heard her side of the story. There’s history there that we know nothing about.”

“We do know about it,” he protests. “Bela told us everything.”

“Yes but still, we don’t know anything apart from what Bela told us. Castiel might turn out to be no worse than any other rich guy who’s used to getting his own way.”

“We already know that Novak has insulted nearly everyone in the room at one time or another. Are you changing your mind about him now that he’s paying for our drinks?” He’s being mean and he knows it. Jody hasn’t done anything wrong but his issues with Novak eclipse even his good will towards her. “Jesus, Sarah was right about the PR exercise. Spend enough money and you can buy anyone.”

Jody snatches her hand back then holds it up in surrender. “So you’re convinced; that’s up to you. But I talked to Castiel earlier and he was much nicer, much more approachable, than he’s been before.”

“Amazing,” Dean says, unimpressed and disappointed in Jody, “tell me more.” She’s supposed to be on his side.

She carries on regardless. “He really seemed interested, genuinely interested, in the work I’m doing to set up my charity. He asked me to send him information about it and said that they might be able to do something to help me through one of the Novak Corporation charity groups. Really, Dean, does that sound like such a terrible person to you?”

“It’s probably a tax write off, or more PR, or something like that,” he says, looking at her sharply. “I doubt he’d do anything unless there’s something in it for him.”  

Jody was getting pissed at him now. He could see it in the lines of her face and the tension of her shoulders. “You’re really determined to hate him aren’t you?”

“I’m not determined to hate him. I’d have to care to hate him. I’m just sure he’s an asshole.”

She stands up. “I don’t know if anyone else has pointed this out to you, but, for someone who thinks Castiel is an asshole, you sure do spend a lot of time talking about the guy.” She stomps off, but turns and takes a couple of steps back towards him a moment later. “You should be careful about putting too much store by Bela’s story. I read enough gossip magazines to know one thing, no matter how convincing these things might seem at the time, they often turn out not to be true. No matter what you’ve heard, or who you’ve heard it from, it would serve you better to take some time and form your own opinion. Don’t borrow someone else’s. At the very least, it’s lazy, and at most, damaging, if it means you miss out on friends who could be good for you.”

Dean bristles. He has formed his own opinions thank you very much. He formed them the first time he met Novak, when they guy had insulted him and treated him as if he was nothing at all. What happened to Bela was just a confirmation of the facts. Who could doubt it? Bela had all the openness and honesty that Novak lacked. She volunteered details without being asked for them. Jody is entitled to her own opinion but Dean is also entitled to his and he’s seen nothing, since that first uncomfortable encounter, that would justify changing it. Never mind. He’d smooth things over with Jody in the morning. The free drinks had loosened everyone’s tongues and Jody wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge. As far as Dean was concerned, this disagreement was just one more thing Novak was responsible for.

“You know I think Jody might be right on this one, Dean,” Sam says later, once he’s managed to get the truth from Dean about what had caused Jody to walk off in a huff. Dean rolls his eyes, he’s already been through this once, he doesn’t want a second argument tonight. “Sarah says Bela might not be quite what she seems.”

“But she doesn’t know Bela herself?”

“No I don’t think so.”

“So anything Sarah knows about it she got from Castiel,” Dean says patiently, waiting for Sam and his giant brain to pick up on what he’s implying. Sam just looks at him. Dean sighs. Sometimes he wishes he was more like his brother, always trying to see the best in people, always giving them the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty was a noble attitude but sometimes, when the fault was so glaringly obvious, it looked naïve.

“Novak is Sarah’s friend so she’s going to believe his side of the story.” Sarah’s blind partiality irked Dean somewhat. She seemed like she had more sense than to be taken in by him. He couldn’t dislike her for it but he could think her choice in friends was unfortunate. “I don’t blame her for believing her friend. But I’m going to trust my friend,” he goes on. “We all know what an arrogant dick Novak is, he’s proved it more than once. This just proves what we already know about him and nothing you can say will change that.”

Sam shakes his head but isn’t in the mood to fight, and with that (and the spectacularly noisy entrance of Andy Gallagher), the conversation moves on and the disagreement is forgotten for the time being.

With Andy’s arrival, the tempo of the party increased. Whatever powers of persuasion Andy possessed he put to good use convincing the DJ to play “something we can dance to.” The result was a wedding reception style grab-bag of eighties and nineties hits.

It wasn’t Dean’s taste in music and apparently wasn’t Novak’s either; he loitered, haunting the edge of the dance floor, a dark figure emerging into the light only to cast disapproving looks at the revellers as if he wished the force of his disgust alone would send them away. Meg tracked him like a bloodhound, hanging from his arm whenever he allowed it, whispering God knows what in his ear with a self-satisfied smirk. It had always been amusing to watch her chase Novak with increasing levels of desperation, but now Dean knew he was as good as engaged to someone else (a not-that-distant relative too – incesty weirdos) it was nothing short of hilarious. Even better, it kept Novak preoccupied and away from everyone else. Or it was, the last time Dean looked.

Andy is being distracting. He’s theatrically recounting a particularly debauched story and everyone at Dean’s table is laughing. It’s loud enough to draw dozens of questioning eyes to them as Andy mimes a series of x-rated actions, and swivels his hips in a way that makes some people at the nearby tables gasp and turn away, their faces a bright beet-red with a few guilty smiles hidden behind hands. As Andy reaches the raucous end of his story, Dean takes himself over to the bar, in search of another beer. He’s not missing out on anything; Andy’s voice carries, almost magically clear over the music, as Dean stumbles his way around people shaking their stuff on the dance floor (because they’re genies in a bottle apparently).  

He waves to the bar-tender. “A beer barkeep,” Dean calls out. “When you’re ready.” The guy nods and finishes making a sparkly cocktail (with actual sparklers in it) for a lady dressed in a shiny orange-pink outfit. It clashes horribly with the dark red décor and makes her look more than a little like a baked salmon. 

A shadow falls and Dean’s view of the fizzing drink, and the happy face of the excited salmon lady lit up by the bright white sparks, is blocked by a dark figure. The simple joy of the moment is extinguished when Dean meets Novak’s cool gaze. He holds the stare for a moment that moves agonizingly slowly, refusing to step back from the challenge, irked at the display of dominance from Novak as he moves, uninvited, into Dean’s personal space.

“I’m glad you came,” is the first unexpected thing out of Novak’s mouth. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Novak’s eyes slip past Dean and in the direction of Andy’s noisy performance. His face is still and, Dean is surprised to find, quite unreadable from this close up. There’s the usual furrow between dark brows but what appeared as disgust from a distance looks more like confusion, or even discomfort, when Novak’s close enough to... kick. Good, says a little voice at the back of Dean’s head. Novak deserves to feel a whole lot worse. Dean will take making him uncomfortable for lack of a better option.   

The second unexpected thing from Novak’s mouth is, “what are you drinking, Dean?”

Muscle ticks along Dean’s jaw as he tenses. He fucking hates the way Novak says his name. Always with a pause before and his voice quiet, as if it’s such a small ordinary name he doesn’t want to sully his lips with it. “Beer,” Dean says through gritted teeth. He forces his shoulders to relax and props an elbow on the bar. It serves a dual purpose; makes him look unconcerned with Novak’s proximity and helps him move away from it as he leans to the side. “But I’m not sure about all this European stuff. It’s all a bit rich for my taste.” Nice one, Dean. He congratulates himself and can’t help the small smirk that creeps in at the corner of his mouth. He gives Novak a pointed look and waits for him to feel the oh-so-subtle burn of Dean’s very clever dig.

He’ll be waiting forever because nothing happens. Either it flies right over Novak’s head or the guy’s got a poker face people would die for. If anything, he actually looks slightly less stern with a softening of the tension he carries at the corner of his eyes. Damn it.

Novak nods. “I think there might be some other brands in the house.” That’s the third unexpected thing out of his mouth. “I can send one of the waiters over to see if there’s something you’d prefer. There are some micro-breweries in the area that Sarah likes to support. I’m sure there’ll be...”

“No man, it’s fine,” Dean interrupts.

“It’s no trouble.” Novak turns to the guy behind the bar ready to send him scurrying over to the house when there are other people still waiting to be served.

“It’s no trouble to you,” Dean says and it comes out sounding hard. “I think our friend here might disagree.” The bar-tender looks thankful for the reprieve and smiles weakly while Dean orders another of those (actually quite nice) European beers.

The tension lines are back when Novak says, “okay just let me know if you change your mind.” His frown deepens “I don’t... we could go up to the house together to have a look. I don’t think you saw the kitchens or Sarah’s wine cellar last time you were here. I could show you.”

What the fuck is going on? Now Dean is frowning back at him. “No,” he says. “That’s not a thing I want to do.” The “with you” is held back but Dean’s pretty sure Novak gets the message as the topic is dropped after that.

“Well, I hope that you and your friends are having a good time.” Novak steps back, finally, and Dean can breathe properly again.

“Yeah, we are.” Dean’s instinct is to keep the exchange short, let Novak walk away, for both their sakes. Whatever highfalutin manners compelled Castiel to come and talk to him, he can’t imagine the guy takes any more pleasure in it than Dean does – and that is – absolutely no pleasure at all. But there’s the rub; keeping Novak talking might be the worse punishment. Dean feels a stab of perverse delight at the thought of causing him as much discomfort as possible.

So Dean talks and it stops Novak in his retreating tracks. He talks about anything and nothing; “So what about these decorations? Pretty nifty huh?” “Not sure about this music. I’m more of a classic rock guy myself.” “Have you tried the food? They’ve got these mini cheese and bacon things... man they are to die for.”  There’s a moment where Novak looks surprised. His eyes widen and he rocks back onto his heels as if Dean’s conversation was a slap in the face. It’s so fleeting, Dean can’t be sure it wasn’t a hallucination brought on by the potent beer.

Whether it’s having the desired effect or not, who could tell, Novak is as outwardly stoic and statue-like as ever. He makes very few replies to Dean’s effusive observations.

“If I’m boring you, you don’t have to just stand here,” Dean snaps at last. He’s getting frustrated and running out of things to say.

There’s the flicker of surprise again. Perhaps Dean wasn’t imagining it the first time, though it’s hard to say for sure. “You’re not boring me,” Novak replies. “I enjoy listening to you, Dean. Your observations are very... irreverent.”

“Irreve-what?” Dean asks. Novak breaths out a sound that might, or might not, be a laugh. Dean wasn’t trying for funny, so he can only assume Novak is finding amusement in Dean’s uneducated idiocy. What a dick. “Never mind,” he waves his hand in the air and pushes any self-consciousness aside. “I feel like I’m doing a monologue over here. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stick around,” he says (hopefully).

“Apologies,” Novak says, rather too earnestly for Dean’s comfort (he was only bullshitting after all). “I wasn’t sure that sharing my opinions would be welcome.” True enough; maybe Dean should give the guy some credit for that.   

“Maybe, maybe not,” Dean shrugs. “But then we could at least call it a conversation, tick it off the ‘to-do’ list, enjoy the fact that we got through it and don’t have to do it again.”

Novak tilts his head, and if Dean isn’t going completely mad, it almost looks like he’s smiling. Damn that really wasn’t the plan. “And are these your own feelings on the matter or do you imagine they are mine?”

“Both,” Dean says with a small shrug of his shoulders. “It might be the only thing we have in common. We’re both grouchy and stuck in our ways and don’t like talking when there’s nothing worth saying.”

“I don’t think the description fits you very well,” Castiel says, politely. He looks down at his shoes, effectively hiding his face from Dean. “How well it fits me, I can’t say.”

They lapse into silence until Dean scans the crowd and remembers why he is subjecting himself to Novak’s company. “It’s a shame some of the crew couldn’t make it,” he says.

A little spark of triumph leaps in Dean’s chest as Novak looks up. Something dark clouds his expression before he can control it, tie it up, and pack it away behind hard blue eyes. Dean’s glad. Novak should feel bad for what he’s done.  

Novak shifts back to his usual stance, straight back, head lifted, and nose in the air. “Miss Talbot has a talent for making friends easily,” he says, his voice is icy, all semblance of friendliness dropped. “Whether she is equally capable of keeping them is another matter entirely.” Novak nods, thanks Dean again for coming, then turns and quickly walks away.

“Fucker,” Dean mutters under his breath, no longer entirely sure whether it’s aimed at Novak or himself.

A loud crash, accompanied by the smash of glasses and tableware spilling onto the floor, pushes thoughts of Novak from Dean’s head. Charlie stands over Andy’s prone form clutching a champagne bottle, rescued from the mess on the floor. A mess that had been their table until Andy decided it could double as a dance floor. Jody makes herself busy directing the wait-staff that rush over to help with the clear up. Andy sprawls among the destruction, legs akimbo while he giggles and swears, and flicks away melting ice cubes and shards of glass that reflect the flashing lights of the dance floor.

Dean grins and begins to laugh at how ridiculous Andy looks. He’s stopped short as he catches Novak’s horrified look. He’s standing at his own table; Sarah’s sisters are with him looking mildly alarmed and gripping on to each other as if they’ve just witnessed some huge calamity. Novak turns and says something that leaves the ugly-sisters shaking while averting their eyes from the disaster area.

“Oh dear,” Sarah says as she rushes by, drawn from whatever corner she and Sam have been hiding in all this time, to attend to the commotion. She starts apologising and trying to help with the rescue as Andy is hauled onto his feet. Charlie helpfully offers her champagne bottle to him, which he takes gratefully, with a lopsided grin, and drinks straight from it in big thirsty gulps.

Sam appears at Dean’s side. His hair is suspiciously messy. There’s a trace of lipstick on his neck and flecks of pink at the corner of his mouth. Dean files those factoids away for later use. He doesn’t feel like joking right now while Sarah looks at them sadly from among the fray. Over at Novak’s table the man himself has turned away. Meg’s dark beady eyes glint at him from the shadows. Her gaze drifts over towards Dean as she sneers. When she finds him looking back she narrows her eyes until they are nothing more than dark slits in her pale face. She shakes her head slowly as if this is somehow Dean’s fault and he should know better than to cross her. He cocks an eyebrow in question but she looks away, dismissive to the last.

Andy’s accident marks the beginning of the end of Sarah Blake’s ball. One by one and two by two people start to disappear, laughing and stumbling across the grass towards the waiting fleet of cars, trying to beat the break of dawn back to their beds. Dean is among the last to leave. Not by Dean’s choice, but he understands Sam dragging his heels as much as he understands that Sarah is reluctant to see him go. She slowly walks with them to the driveway and for a moment Dean thinks she might ask Sam to stay. He’s been expecting it and, when it doesn’t happen, he has to resist the over whelming urge to knock their stupid heads together. They stand and say their goodbyes with shy smiles and tangled fingers. The ugly-sisters are close on their heels, however and Novak follows on his way back to the house. Their presence slams the shutters on the precarious moment and a few seconds later their car is driving away.

Castiel watches the taillights flicker then disappear among the trees, the growl of the engines and crunch of gravel falling away and gone. The staff make noise as they clear away the detritus of the night, but at least the terrible music has been switched off and he can hear some of the natural sounds of the surrounding woodland over the clatter. He closes his eyes and listens to the rustle of the wind as it moves in the tops of the trees. It calms him.

The night was all Sarah’s idea. Apart from the unfortunate incident with the broken table, it was more-or-less a success. On Sarah’s orders he had tried to be friendlier, with the Bake-Off guests in particular. They all ate and drank a lot. There was dancing. Most of them seemed to enjoy themselves. He hopes they did. Did they? He’s never been good at these things.

He sighs and his breath fogs in the air. It’s nearly dawn and the heat of summer has dissipated during the night. He shivers like someone stepped on his grave.

“Thank God that’s over,” Meg says as she slides out of the shadows. “And we never have to have any of those dreadful people in the house again.” She puts a cigarette to her mouth and lights it. There’s a crackle and blaze of orange light as she sucks in a breath, then blows out a fog of smoke.

“At least it isn’t your house,” Castiel replies. She laughs as if it was the most hilarious joke she’s ever heard. He wasn’t joking, so he ignores it.

“I could just about stand the simpering gratitude of the crew, or the older folk with their cut price airs and graces, but those people the Winchesters were with,” she looks nauseated for a moment. “Don’t they know how to behave? Drinking everything in sight and destroying other people’s property. Honestly, Castiel, I don’t know how you’ve put up with them for all these weeks. You must have the patience of a saint.”

“I don’t think they’re usually like that,” he says. “I’ve had no trouble with them during the show. Though I can’t say for sure, they tend to keep to themselves, most of the time.”

“Castiel, you are too good.” She tilts her head and looks up at him through dark eyelashes. “They’ve done nothing to deserve your good opinion, yet you give it so freely.” Her eyes turn sly. “Even to the elder Mr Winchester, I noticed. I saw you talking to him.” She pushes at his arm, he thinks it’s supposed to be playful, teasing, but he isn’t sure so he ignores it. “You looked quite enraptured by his; what was it now?  Oh yes, his fine eyes. I’m starting to suspect there’s more to this than aesthetic admiration, hmm?” She runs her hand up his forearm and leaves it there, resting near his elbow. It feels like a weight and he has a strong desire to move away, to break the contact as soon as possible.

“You accused me of liking him once before.”

“I remember, and you convinced me I was wrong.”

He looks down at her. “You were wrong,” he says and she grins at him. “You were wrong then, but not now.”

Meg stares at him as if she’s expecting a punch line. “But he’s so coarse, so loud, and...” She looks truly shocked.

“I thought so too, at first, but now I see that Dean has some first rate qualities. Much like his brother and I’ve often heard you tell Sarah how much you like Sam.”

“Well yes, but...” she stops and settles her features back into their usual lines. “If you like him then good for you,” she looks away, licks her lips and says. “It’s a shame then that he doesn’t choose his friends more wisely. I’m sure I heard someone say tonight that he and Bela have been almost inseparable since they met.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Yes, they’re friends,” he says stiffly. He doesn’t want to talk about this with Meg. It’s a private matter. A family matter and not even Sarah is privy to all the details.

“That will make it awkward for you.”

“I shouldn’t think so. I said I like him, that’s all. The competition will be over soon and I doubt we’ll ever see him again.” He turns to her and her teeth are a white slash in the darkness as she beams at him, happy with his response.

“That’s probably for the best,” Meg says with fake sympathy in her tone. “I think, where Dean Winchester is concerned, a little goes a long way.”

“Yes, I would agree with that,” Castiel says absently as he frowns at the dark tree line, behind him the lights on the marquee still flicker, casting strange shadows on the grass. Castiel wants to dislike Dean for befriending Bela, to blame him for being taken in by her, but somehow he cannot. He isn’t sure he would be so tolerant for anyone else and he can’t really work out why Dean should be the exception.

Meg seems happy enough. She crushes her cigarette into the gravel. Grinds it up under her shoe where it dies with a burst of sparks that kick up, spinning like a tiny constellation before burning out.  She heads into the house throwing one last indecipherable look over her shoulder at him. She always does that. He doesn’t understand what she means and it’s quite irritating.


	3. Rosings Park

**Part 3: Rosings Park**

“Still no word from Sarah then?” Dean asks. “I thought you two were getting serious? Don’t tell me she finally found out what a giant nerd you are? Sorry, Sammy, but it was bound to happen sooner or later.” He means it as a joke but Sam’s silence at the other end of the line tells him that, by accident or design, he’s hit a raw nerve. “Sam, you ok?”

There is a rustle and a sigh and, at length, a “yeah, it’s probably nothing.” Oh God, Sam’s going to force Dean’s into starting a talk about feelings isn’t he?

“Really?” Dean says, “because it sure as hell sounds like something to me.”

He takes a breath and puts his pen down on the table. It rolls on the table-top and comes to rest against the side of a notepad he’s spent the last hour covering in the spider-web of his messy scrawl. Trawling the internet for new baking tips and ideas has become a nightly ritual, but he pushes it aside to concentrate on Sam.

“Sarah hasn’t called in a while, that’s all,” Sam admits. He’s trying to sound casual, but Dean always could read the kid like an open book, and there’s worry dragging at the edges of his voice.

“She’s probably just busy, don’t worry about it,” Dean tries to sound reassuring but he isn’t exactly the best person to give any kind of relationship advice. He’s never been in one that lasted more than a couple of months and didn’t end with the other party hating his guts. Dean tries anyway and Sam let’s him without any snarky comments pointing out his lack of expertise.

“I’m not worried,” Sam goes on but the reedy quality of his voice gives the lie away. “I just, I thought...”

“Spit it out, Sam.”

“I thought we had something, you know? That we were heading towards something special. We never talked about it, or put labels on it, but I really like her. I thought it was more than just dating for both of us. But now, I don’t know. I’m not so sure.” He sounds so pathetic Dean doesn’t know whether he wants to reach down the phone and hug his brother, or laugh at him. He squeezes his lips together to stop the smile that is threatening to break out. Thank God Dean’s internet connection is too unreliable for Skype.

“What aren’t you telling me? Come on, Sam,” Dean urges. “It’s not like you to sweat the small stuff like this. There’s something else bothering you, what is it?”

Sam hems and haws before confessing. “I might have called her house a couple of times when I couldn’t reach her on her cell.”

“Okay, that’s not so bad.” It isn’t what Dean would do but then Sam isn’t Dean. Sam wants things, wants people in his life, and he goes and gets them. Dean’s never chased anyone or anything in his life. More than one budding romance has fizzled out through unexplained radio silence. It isn’t in his nature to question why people leave; he just lets them go, without regret, and moves on... until the next time.

“I know it’s not been long but I was worried,” Sam goes on. “We’ve been talking every few days and then suddenly, a whole week and nothing, not even a text.”

“So, you called her house, and what? The maid told you to piss off or something?”

Dean is rewarded with a weak laugh. “No, I spoke to Meg. She’s living at Sarah’s place while her apartment in New York is being renovated.”

“Meg has her own place?” Dean is stunned by the idea. “I thought she was just a permanent hanger-on or something. Shit, don’t tell me she has a job as well, I might die of shock.”

“That’s not really the point I was making, Dean,” Sam says grumpily. Heck, at least he doesn’t sound like a sad-sack anymore – Dean will take that as a win. He silently goes to high-five an imaginary partner then remembers he isn’t a massive nerd like his little brother and lets his hand fall to his side. He clears his throat and pretends it never happened.

“Sorry. So you talked to Meg and..?”

“And it was strange.”

“Strange how?” Absently, Dean retrieves the pen and starts scribbling doodles on the corner of the notepad while he talks.

“She was really short with me.”

Dean snorts. “That’s because she’s a tiny person.”

“Dean!”

“Sorry. Go on.”

Sam tuts and Dean can imagine the massive bitch-face he’ll be wearing right about now. “Meg was really off-hand with me,” he says carefully. “She said Sarah got the messages I left on her cell but she’s just too busy with work right now to return them.”

“That doesn’t sound so weird to me. Sarah has a demanding job, right?” And a demanding asshole of a boss, Dean adds silently. He writes ASS in block letters and starts to fill them in. Blue ink smudges over his messy notes making them even harder to read.

“It was the way she said it that was strange. She was really dismissive. It made me feel like a bit of an idiot for being worried and for expecting Sarah to get in touch at all.”

“That’s just Meg though isn’t it? I know you think she’s okay but she’s never said a word to me that wasn’t basically an insult. I don’t think she has time for anyone who isn’t called Novak.” His pen nearly gouges a hole in the paper at the last word. He adds the name in big letters then surrounds it with a fringe of the choicest, juiciest insults he can think of, while he tries to remember that this conversation is about Sam and Sarah. It’s not the time to go off on another one of his anti-Castiel Novak tirades. He knows Sam hates them.

“I know you don’t like her, Dean, but she was always pretty nice to me before. That isn’t the end of it; she started telling me about how Sarah was entertaining a group of European businessmen, trying to hammer out some important deal for the Novak Corporation. Then she casually mentions that one of them is an old flame of Sarah’s, and starts saying how lovely it would be if they could rekindle their romance because it would be such a great match, and how it would make everyone so happy. It was like she expected me to agree and be happy about it.”

“Evil bitch,” is all Dean can think of to say.

He hears another sigh on the line, deep and resigned, and Dean wants to reach through the phone and shake some sense into Sam. Seriously, Meg is full of shit.

“I really thought she felt the same as me,” Sam goes on. “I guess I was wrong and it was just a casual thing for her.”

“Meg’s just talking out her ass, Sam,” Dean says. He flips the page over and starts to scribble on the next one, imagines that each dark line he puts down is crossing out Meg’s pathetic little life, burying her beneath thick blue bars. “Sam, if Sarah isn’t back in California with you in a week, I’ll eat Bobby’s favourite cap.”

“I wish I could be so sure, but Meg...”

“Don’t listen to that bitch, Sam. Anyone that’s seen you and Sarah together can see the girl’s got it bad – God only knows why,” he adds. “Meg can see it too and she doesn’t think you’re good enough for her sister. She’s trying to convince you Sarah doesn’t care about you so you’ll go away, disappear back to where you came from, simple as that.”

“I can’t believe she’d be that malicious,” Sam says.

“Sam, it’s real nice that you always try to think the best of people, but you’re a lawyer, you’re going to have to stop assuming everyone’s telling the truth all the time or you’re going to get laughed right out of lawyer-club.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Sam says, but it’s grudging, and Dean can tell he doesn’t really mean it.

“I’m definitely right,” Dean assures him. “Listen to big bro, Sam, when have I ever led you wrong? Not including that time in Mexico with the tequila and the donkey.” Sam laughs, heartily this time, and Dean is glad to hear it. “Now get off the phone and stop bothering me with your teenage love-angst-drama, I’ve got a competition to cram for.”

“And what is it this time?”

“Sweet dough. I’m trying an apple brioche recipe later so I can take it to the Roadhouse and get Ellen to taste-test it.”

“Sounds good, Dean. Sorry I can’t be there to help you out.”

“Your loss.”

“It really, really is,” Sam says and ends the call soon after.

Sarah will come back. Sam will be fine. Dean’s sure of it. He turns his attention back to his notes and realises he’s going to have to copy out the brioche recipe again, as it’s now buried under spiky doodles and random swear words. He taps some keys on his ancient laptop – can almost hear the cogs turning inside as it wheezes back to life – and gets back to work. Christ, he can barely remember what his life was like before the damn Show but he’s pretty sure he didn’t spend his every night doing this.

It’s another week, another shoot, and another creaky old property that will form the back-drop of all the baking shenanigans. This one is a damn impressive house and no mistake; row upon row of windows run the length of the red-brick front, stacked one on top of the other, four storeys tall at least. They reflect white in the sunlight and against the red it looks like a mouth packed with very straight teeth. It all looks oddly clean, new even, and Dean finds it difficult to believe that it’s been standing in this very spot for over two hundred years (at least that’s what the “local interests” leaflet in his hotel room claimed).

It was run as a hotel. A very exclusive hotel that was too good for the likes of the Bake-Off competitors to stay in. Though not too good, it seems, to turn away the promotional opportunity of hosting the show. This was one of the few times they had been housed off-site, at a nice but much cheaper hotel, in the outskirts of a nearby town. They congregated at the hotel, the nine remaining contestants, over the course of a Thursday. On arrival, they were handed a note telling them to be ready by five in the morning, when a coach would be sent to ferry them to the location.

Novak, as usual, was nowhere to be seen, having made his own, unnecessarily secretive, arrangements.

“It’s better he stays away,” Dean says that evening, ignoring Jody’s cautionary look, “Novak only makes people uncomfortable. We’re better off without him.”

He’s disappointed not to get a more positive reaction from his companions. A couple of nods and some uncomfortable looks are the sum of it. Charlie pats the back of Dean’s hand but it seems more an act of comfort than agreement. Jody just shakes her head. A few people look guilty while they keep their mouths shut. Sarah’s expertly wrangled “charm offensive” had worked and the others had been bought off with some free drink and a polite word or two, dropped into their ears, by the great man himself. Dean was disappointed they were so easily influenced. Was it any wonder that all those rich guys thought they could get away with anything when the little guys rolled over so easily, grateful for the smallest of attentions? Dean was not so easily moved and if Andy had still been around, he would have agreed.

Another disappointment was Bela’s call, a few days earlier, when she told him she’d had to give up the Bake-Off job to deal with some personal business on the west coast. She didn’t sound too down about it, but then she never did sound down, that was one of the things Dean liked about her.  She made some noise about an opportunity on one of those big boring cop shows they shot out in LA but it didn’t fool Dean for one minute. She didn’t say it, she didn’t have too, but this was one hundred percent Novak’s doing. He had either asked Pam to have Bela removed from the crew, or she’s decided it was too difficult to be in his presence and to be reminded, vividly and painfully, of her lost life. Dean didn’t care which it was, it was just another mark in his book against Novak’s name (he doesn’t really have a book like that but sometimes he wishes he did).  

Bela promised to stay in touch but he’d heard nothing from her since. Perhaps this would be the one time Dean made the effort and contacted someone first. He almost hoped that Novak would do something terrible during the bake, so he’d have an excuse to email her with all the horrid, and currently imaginary, detail.  

“We’ll be leaving the location as soon as the judging is finished. No hanging about,” Pamela had told them. She arrived early in the morning with the coach, hanging from the open door like a figurehead on a ship, or a warrior princess, leading the way and waving for them to climb on board.   

No doubt the owner of the grand hotel was worried about the reaction of their high-class clientele to the pack of marauding bakers, let loose to run riot in their flour and goo-covered aprons, brandishing rolling pins and banging on baking sheets. It wouldn’t do to disturb the rich folks. Even if it was fine to have the place promoted on TV with lingering soft focus shots across fountains and manicured gardens with their, quite frankly, bizarre topiary.

What the hell is that? Dean wonders as they pass some lumpy thing that looks more like a tentacled nightmare than anything else.

“Cthulhu,” Charlie whispers and jabs a finger in the direction of the twisty green horror.

The coach drops them in a small neat parking lot. They trudge around the side of the building with Pam, and her perpetually dishevelled assistant, shepherding them along with waving hands and encouraging smiles.

A figure exits the front door of the imposing building as they pass. He stops on the top step for a moment, as if surprised at finding them there, before he makes chase. “Miss Barnes!” he calls out succeeding in catching Pam’s attention.

She leaves the contestants huddled in a group, looking a lot like sheep as they blink sleepily at each other. The young man comes over to them; he’s a smart looking guy in a well cut suit. Long limbed and poised, with a polished look that screams _money_ , but he looks friendly and he smiles as he looks over the ragtag group.

“Inias, it’s so lovely to see you darling.” Pam kisses him once on each cheek. Leaving smears of red lipstick behind that she wipes away with her thumb, skirting it back and forth over his cheekbone. It’s affectionate and intimate in a way that makes Dean want to give them some privacy. The man simply smiles at the action and they chat casually for a while.

“Well, my beautiful bakers,” she says as she turns back to the crowd. “This is my good friend Inias Novak-Williams. He manages this estate, so be very nice to him or he’ll throw you off the property and then where would we be.”

Dean feels his eyebrows creep up at this new bit of intel. When he looks again, he can see the resemblance to Novak. Superficially they seem different, different hair, different eyes, different height, but it’s there in the way they hold themselves; straight back and head lifted, no fear. The shared name is no fluke, they are definitely related, but where Castiel is all dark frowns and quiet disapproval, this Inias is white toothy smiles, soft laughter, and the hint of a blush as Pam rests her hand on his arm.

Dean suddenly feels an unaccountable sense of sadness. He had figured that Novak’s whole family would be dour and miserable. That Novak’s rude and selfish behaviour was somehow a genetic heritage. Here was evidence to the contrary, living and breathing, right in front of Dean’s eyes. He didn’t know if that made Novak even more dreadful or just dreadfully sad. Dean shivers, shakes himself out of the dreary thoughts, and wonders why he’s wasting his energy on Novak in the first place.

Pam’s hand moves lightly over Inias’s forearm. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that there’s something going on between them. Whether that “something” is in the past or present looks pretty irrelevant as they lean in towards each other, voices getting quieter and quieter, until Pam’s assistant clears his throat and they snap back into the moment. The one thing this does clear up is how Pam managed to get Castiel into the Show; a personal connection to the Novak family is nothing to be sneezed at.

“Come,” Pam says quietly, in answer to a question spoken too low for Dean to hear. “I’ll introduce you.”

Taking him by the elbow, she draws Inias over to the contestants, introducing him to each of the eight bakers in turn. Dean is the last to have his hand warmly shaken, which is strange since he was standing right in the middle of the group when the introductions began.

“And this is Dean.” She puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and draws him out of the crowd.

“Of course,” Inias says, as if he recognised the name. Before Dean can do anything more than look quizzical Pam has turned to lead the motley crew onwards. 

“I’m very pleased to have the chance to meet you, Dean,” Inias says falling in to walk beside Dean. “May I call you Dean?” he asks, and waits for Dean’s permission (which he gives) before going on. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my cousin, Castiel.” That explains it. Dean dreads to think what Novak might have been saying, telling tales that cast him in the worst possible light, no doubt.

“Castiel is my biggest critic so I guess he’s got plenty to say,” Dean replies.

Inias laughs, but it sounds unsure, as if Dean’s told a joke that he doesn’t quite understand. “I find that very hard to believe,” Inias says with a pleasantly baffled expression.

Dean is about to ask him why, when the group is corralled toward the Bake-Off marquee and has to bid a hasty goodbye instead.

“Dean,” Inias calls out as the bakers move over the lawn, treading heavy footprints into the immaculate green grass, their feet getting damp from the early morning dew. “I wanted to ask, will you join us for dinner?”

Pre-occupied with the tasks ahead, Dean mumbles, “sure why not,” without giving it much thought. When he looks up a moment later, Jody is watching him with an odd and disapproving expression, if he’s reading it right. Her head is tilted to the side and her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s looking at him like she might be about to arrest him.

“What?” he asks.

“Just wondering if you know what you’re doing,” she says with a shrug.

He frowns at her. “Well I was planning on making a fruit loaf and some brioche since that’s what they asked us to do,” he says sarcastically, as he walks past her. She shakes her head like she’s disappointed in him. Dean doesn’t get it but he also doesn’t have the time to worry about whatever’s he’s done that’s bugging her so much.

He goes over to his workspace and is unsurprised to find Novak pottering about at the workstation in front. Dean ignores him, as usual, and gets to work on his prep before the judges arrive to start the bake.

It’s a busy day. They always are, but there are no major disasters and Dean survives to fight another round. His fruit loaf is okay, his apple brioche comes in third (beating Novak’s dark chocolate and hazelnut effort – he has to resist whooping in triumph at that), but the best part is the technical challenge. Crowley asks them to make jelly filled donuts, something it turns out only Dean knows how to do. He rather smugly turns out a perfectly uniform batch of half a dozen, and even Crowley has to grudgingly admit, they are damn near perfect.

He’s tired when Pam catches up with him afterwards. It’s been one of the best days on the Bake-Off so far and he smiles at her when she gives him a light hug and congratulates him. But that isn’t why she’s there. “If I send a car to pick you up at eight o’clock, does that give you enough time?” she asks.

He’s a little bleary from the heat and stress of the day and all he can think about is a cool shower and falling into bed. “What car? What are you talking about?”

“Dinner,” she says, as if that explains everything.

He stares at her.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Inias invited you to come for dinner, yes?” She doesn’t have to talk to him like he’s stupid, he’d remember if that had... oh. “That’s right,” she says and pats him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t think he meant here, tonight. I thought he was being nice. I mean why would he invite me, he doesn’t know me.”

“Inias is a lovely guy,” she says, “he invited you because he thought you’d enjoy it.  I think you will too, so you’re coming, and no wriggling out of it.”

Dean looks down over his flour and dough-smeared self. “I don’t have any other decent clothes with me.” 

“Well then, you’ll have to go naked and won’t that be a treat for everyone,” she jokes. “Its fine, Dean, it’s just a casual meal, nothing fancy. I don’t care, and I know Inias and Castiel won’t care either.”

“Castiel? Castiel’s going to be there?” That makes even less sense. Did he fall asleep? Is this a dream (or maybe a nightmare)? He surreptitiously pinches himself to make sure. No luck. He’s definitely awake.

“Of course Castiel’s going to be there, Dean. Inias is his cousin and they’re very close. Who do you think told him about you?” And that’s the problem. Dean can’t wrap his brain cells around any situation in which Novak would issue a dinner invitation. Maybe he’s going to be the entertainment; the freak to be laughed at for not knowing which fork to use. But Pam would never let that happen and Dean’s gut tells him Inias is harmless (the same gut also tells him to go for it because it’s really hungry, but his gut can shut up about that).

It’s a moot point anyway, since Dean’s already accidentally accepted. No way does he want to piss Pam off by changing his mind. So that’s that. He’s going to dinner with Castiel... again.

Dean just has one question he wishes someone somewhere would answer; why the fuck does this keep happening to him?

Dean arrives at the hotel’s private wing with a sinking feeling in his stomach, a heavy weight in his heart, and a giant question mark hanging over his head. It’s not private rooms, or a private apartment, but a whole sprawling wing of the building reserved solely for use by the family.

“Don’t worry, you look great, Dean, as always,” Pam says, appearing out of nowhere as she rings the bell. “Though it’s not too late to go with nudity as the dress option,” she deadpans. He smiles and feels some of the tension release from across his shoulders. He is thankful for the small mercy of having Pam at his side through this latest Novak-related ordeal.

The door swings open, silent on perfectly oiled hinges. Dean is half expecting to find a pinch-faced British butler, or something equally ridiculous, behind it. But it’s just Novak. He fills the doorway for a moment with his broad shoulders and serious face. His eyes flick to Dean’s, then away again, before he steps to the side holding the door open for them.

“Please come in,” is all the invitation they get.

It’s enough for Pam. She leads the way, and drops a friendly kiss on Novak’s cheek as she goes by. Dean follows but without the kiss. He isn’t sure what sort of greeting would be suitable. He doesn’t want to shake the guy’s hand – no fucking way, Novak doesn’t deserve that attention, but Dean doesn’t want to offend Inias. There’s an awkward moment where they stare at each other. Novak frowns, looks like he might speak, then changes his mind, and clears his throat. Stop the presses, because Dean thinks they might actually be on the same page for the first time ever; uncomfortable as hell and at a loss about how to deal with such an alien creature. In the end, all Dean can do is give a half-assed fake smile and a little shrug. Novak nods and looks down at the floor.

Dean turns to follow Pam and finds her rolling her eyes at them, a soft, “Jesus Christ,” falling from her lips. It’s clear she’s been here before and she confidently leads the way as Novak lags behind to close and lock the door.

The decor is modern, in keeping with the rest of the hotel interior, but the personal touches here and there give away the fact that this is a home. Sepia photographs in silver frames adorn the walls, telling tales about the building’s past; po-faced Victorians give way to smart young men posing on the lawn with wooden tennis rackets, they in turn are outshone by girls with long strings of pearls and fringed flapper dresses dancing with suited and booted beaus. The lives this house has seen. Objets d'art fill the surfaces in the rooms they pass through.

Pam obligingly fills the quiet with casual patter to stop any reoccurrence of the awkwardness at the door. Dean tunes it out while he puzzles over how on earth he’s fallen in with these people whose families span centuries and left footprints on history. He wonders if perhaps it’s less to do with him than it is to do with Sam and his relationship with Sarah – that would make more sense. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine Novak is under orders from Sarah to play nice, and that Inias might be in on it too. Yeah, that must be it.

“Dean, Pam,” Inias calls out to them as they arrive at a small dining room. He stands up and moves out from behind the table where two more guests peer curiously at the new arrivals. One, the elder, is looking them over as though she needs to apprise them for auction. The younger merely spares them a lacklustre glance or two, dispassionate and bored.

“Thank you for coming.” Inias shakes Dean’s hand enthusiastically (no awkwardness there) and ushers them over to take their seats. Castiel wordlessly slips around them to take up his own. Inias pays no attention to his cousin and keeps talking. “I thought it would just be the four of us,” he says (and wouldn’t that have just been the most uncomfortable thing ever, since it’s becoming clearer and clearer that there’s rather more than friendship between Pam and Inias, is it possible to have two third wheels?). “But our Aunt Catherine and cousin Daphne arrived just in time to join us. Let me introduce you.” He proceeds to do so in the most formal manner Dean has ever witnessed.

Dean perks up at the names. He recognises them from some of Bela’s more vivid reports, and the reality does not disappoint. Aunt Catherine has all the old world hauteur that Bela described. She squints at him, through small glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose, as she talks. And by God does she talk. It’s a constant stream of observations that rarely allows or calls for a response. To her credit, she’s an equal opportunities ignorer; she pays no more attention to Inias than she does to Pam or Dean. Castiel perhaps receives a little more attention, but it is very little indeed, and no one there envies the favour. It does nothing to compel Novak to open his mouth any more than normal.

The daughter, however, no doubt used to all the words being used up by her mother, rarely utters a single one of her own. Even when Pam addresses her directly, it is Aunt Catherine that steps in to provide an answer. She’s pale, thin, and sickly, with unexpressive and unremarkable watery-green eyes. What a pair Daphne and Castiel will make, Dean thinks, while Aunt Catherine’s voice fills up all the dead spaces in the room. They’d live their wedded bliss never saying a single word to each other from one week to the next. Maybe, one day, they’ll lose each other in one of these huge old houses and without the wherewithal to call out for help, they’ll never be seen or heard from again.

Novak, for his part, shows no interest in Daphne and rarely bothers to speak to his aunt. Instead he talks to Pam, who has the misfortune to be sitting beside him, and spares the occasional glare for Dean. It’s a look that Dean returns with a nonchalant smile and the hope, from the very bottom of his heart, that it pisses Novak off.

“Dean, are you perhaps related to the Massachusetts Winchester’s?” Aunt Catherine asks after a good few minutes spent staring in his direction with narrowed speculative eyes. “You have the look of them,” she muses. “I knew an Agnes Winchester when I was a girl. Pretty little thing she was apart from the freckles of course.”

He stifles a laugh at the insult. Heck at least the old lady says what she thinks, which is more than some people in this room would do, no matter how much Dean’s freckle covered body offends them. “No ma’am, I don’t think so,” he answers politely. “I’m from Kansas.”

“And what do you do in Kansas, Dean?” She’s looking over the top of her spectacles now – giving her full attention. Dean has no idea what he’s done to deserve it. He wishes he knew, so he could stop.

“I’m a mechanic.” He opts to skip the part about also working in a bar four nights a week. He isn’t ashamed of it but he’d rather not lay the bare bones of his life out in front of Novak for him to pick over and discard.

“How extraordinary,” Aunt Catherine says, her eyebrows arching towards her hairline, astonished. “And how would one come to be doing a thing like that?” she carries on completely unabashed.

“I like cars, and I’ve always been good with my hands or so they tell me.” He winks at Pam as he says it. She and Inias laugh, Castiel looks mildly scandalised and stares at his plate, while Aunt Catherine misses the joke completely and Daphne yawns.

“And what do your family make of you taking part in this television show?” She drawls the last words, her face twisting up as though they taste unpleasant in her mouth.

“I only have a brother,” he explains, “no other family, not by blood anyway, and he’s very happy for me. The whole thing was actually his idea and he put the application in for me.”

“And thank goodness he did,” Pam chips in. Turns to Aunt Catherine and says, “Dean’s one of our best contestants, the audience is going to love him,” which makes Dean’s face feel warm.

Pam gets soundly ignored. Aunt Catherine raises her eyebrows and harrumphs. “Your brother approves of you making such an exhibition of yourself. That does surprise me.”

“It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid,” Pam jumps in, trying to lead the conversation in another direction before Castiel’s frown becomes so deep his face cracks open and puts them off their dinner. “But it’s good wholesome entertainment, educational too, we’ve got a whole website set up to run along with the show so that people at home can learn about baking and try out the recipes. We think it will do well.” She looks at Dean, then Novak, and smiles brightly at the both of them.

Aunt Catherine shakes her head. “I still think there are better things to be doing with your time than messing about with food – that’s why we employ chefs,” she laughs. “Why not do something more constructive with the little spare time you have. Like my dear little Anna with her music and her drawing. Now, those are talents worth developing.” She looks to Castiel for approval but he just nods an acknowledgement and continues his customary silence. “Are you interested in music at all, Dean? I always hoped Daphne would learn the piano, as I never had the time. I think the discipline of musical instruction is useful to the young.”

“I can play the guitar a bit,” Dean confesses. “I taught myself when I was a kid but I only know a few songs and I don’t play in front of people.”

“You kept that quiet,” Pam says. “Sam should’ve put it on your application for the show. I’m sure half the audience would swoon if we got some shots of you playing,” Pam says, and starts tapping away on the touchscreen of her cell.

The rest of the meal was carried off with little difficulty or discomfort. Inias was entertaining and affable, Aunt Catherine and her odd and archaic opinions were funny, and Pam kept the conversation bobbing along on a safe track whenever it looked in danger of veering off into rough terrain. Dean even voluntarily stayed for coffee, though at least half of the motivation for it was because Novak seemed keen for him to leave, offering to “call a car” for him as soon as Dean had swallowed his last mouthful of dessert.

He was glad he stayed because the coffee was amazing. There were some advantages to being stinking rich. Just like at Sarah’s house, while Dean was savouring the rich dark flavour and thinking of ways to get under Novak’s skin, the man in question decided to inflict his company on Dean; only this time Dean saw him coming, since he’d been absently watching the guy while he plotted.

“I was very impressed with your bake today,” Castiel says, pausing for a moment before taking the seat next to Dean (forcing Inias out of the way). “I wondered if you might send me the recipe for the apple brioche? I’d like to try it.”

“I can do that,” Dean replies. “But isn’t it a little beneath your talents? I’m sure your chef could come up with something better. You don’t need to pressure me into giving you mine.” Okay that came out sounding more pissed off than he intended. But Dean can’t help himself. Novak’s very existence brings up unpleasant feelings and Dean just can’t seem to keep his tongue from betraying it.

Pam watches them and she shakes her head at the remark. Dean understands it as the warning it is.

Castiel doesn’t even flinch. He just inclines his head slightly and says, “I don’t believe you really think I’m trying to pressure you into anything.” He blinks slowly as Dean stares at him. “I know you find it funny to say things you know are not true.”

Dean can’t stop himself from laughing this time as he looks to Inias. “Your cousin’s saying I’m a liar. That’s unfair of him isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Inias says with a friendly smile to show he isn’t taking the accusation too seriously.

“It’s not a very smart thing to do either. I could get revenge by embarrassing him in front of his family.” He sends a challenging look in Novak’s direction.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Castiel says, “or anything you have to say.”

“Come on then, Dean; what do you have to accuse my cousin of? It’s a rare thing for anyone to find flaws in Castiel’s character,” Inias encourages.

Dean smirks at Castiel over the gold painted rim of his coffee cup as he sips the last few drops. Places the cup down on a table beside him and begins. “The very first time we met was at a party Pam threw in New York. Everyone was so excited to meet the famous Mr Novak.”

“I can easily believe it,” Inias says.

“He arrived over an hour late and refused to talk to anyone but Pam, Sarah, and Crowley, for the rest of the night. Everyone was heartbroken.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Castiel protests but without much conviction.

“No it isn’t,” Dean says. Novak looks at him then. His expression doesn’t change but suddenly Dean can see a sadness in his eyes that leeches colour from the edges of the brilliant blue. Has it always been there? The discovery keeps further accusations locked firmly behind Dean’s lips.

“How do you defend yourself against that, Castiel?” Inias asks. His voice is merry, light, and whether intentional or not, it helps smooth over the tension in the atmosphere around them.

“Very well,” Castiel says slowly. He keeps his eyes fixed on Dean’s as if it is he, and not Inias, who had requested an explanation. Dean didn’t want to hear Novak’s excuses. “I didn’t speak to many people that night. That much is true. I also didn’t know many people in the room.”

“And there was no way to meet anyone I suppose?” Dean says. “Even though Pam was there, who knows everyone, and more than one person took the trouble to try and speak to you.” It’s pointed and Novak knows exactly what Dean is getting at. He blinks and finally looks away. There’s a flicker of something new in his face now. Could it be guilt? Good. He deserves to feel it.

“I could have done better,” Castiel admits. He’s looking down and pretty much talking to his knees instead of the room. “I find...” he hesitates. “I sometimes find it difficult to talk to strangers.”

“To be fair,” Inias adds on Castiel’s behalf, “he doesn’t usually need to. Once people find out you’re part of the Novak family, they tend to come to you.”

Castiel ignores Inias. Turns to focus on Dean again and he looks more animated at this moment than ever before. It’s quite a shock. He licks his lips (and fuck, Dean wishes he wouldn’t do that), leans forward, reaches out and turns his hand palm side up; leaves it open and resting on the couch between them like a supplication half complete.

“I don’t find it easy to talk to people I don’t know,” he explains. “I sometimes miss the tone of their conversation, and it’s difficult for me to act interested in their concerns when I know nothing about them and can’t offer anything to help. It feels intrusive, to me, to give advice or direction to people when I know that in their place, I wouldn’t welcome it.”

Holy crap what is going on? Is this really Novak admitting he has a fault and asking for understanding? It’s like Dean’s world has just been turned upside down and shaken vigorously (and maybe it has because he suddenly feels ill). Dean is baffled but all he can do is reply as honestly as he can.

“Okay, so you don’t want to give out bad advice or over step the mark, I get that,” he says. “But not all conversations are that serious. Dude, it is alright to just talk crap with people, you know.”

He can’t believe he’s giving Castiel Novak advice and he certainly can’t look him in the eye as he does it. Instead, Dean watches as Inias turns away from their conversation and leans in towards Pam. Her hair falls over the side of her face and her expression is hidden but Inias looks happy enough for the both of them. It’s cute.

“How do you not know this,” Dean continues, turning back to Novak when he doesn’t respond. “You’re what, mid-thirties?” Novak nods. “You’re an import guy, you run a business, and you’ve been all over the world. There must be a hundred things in your head you could talk about at any time. I don’t see why talking to a bunch of ordinary people should be a problem for you.” He thinks for a moment then hits on another more likely idea. “Or maybe you just prefer the sound of silence to the risk of hearing people disagreeing with you?”

Castiel frowns and tips his head to the side. “No. I don’t mind if people disagree with me, all viewpoints are valuable. Maybe I could do better,” he acknowledges, “but, like you, I am reluctant to perform in front of people.” Then he adds, “And ‘sound of silence’ is an oxymoron.” He nods once, stands and walks away without another word, going back to the yammering aunt who has been trying to get his attention for the last couple of minutes.

He leaves Dean flushing with a quick burst of anger. “Yeah, well you’re an oxy-moron... moron,” he mutters under his breath. He has no idea what that means but it doesn’t sound good.

“Dean,” Inias says softly. “Shall I call downstairs and ask for the car now?”

Dean looks at the empty coffee cups on the table. He’s forgotten he could leave whenever he wanted. He doesn’t know how much Pam or Inias heard but he is suddenly grateful to them for the reminder. He answers with a relieved “yes” and is doubly thankful that Novak chooses to stay away; not that his aunt would be willing to release him if he tried.

The next morning breaks over the green countryside bright and fresh. Dean, however, feels less so. His head is fuzzy and clogged with irritated thoughts of the previous night. He’s annoyed about allowing the smallest drop of sympathy to leak through the thick wall of dislike he’d built in his mind and marked _Novak_. Castiel was weird but he was a grown-ass man.  What he’d been spouting last night, it had to be bullshit. Still, there were a few seconds when Dean had bought the sob story and now he was kicking himself for it.

It was those stupid big blue eyes of his. It had to be. Dean was too used to thinking with his downstairs brain. It was a wobble in the moment and it didn’t mean anything. He turned his thoughts to Bela and her plight. That always got his righteous ire all pumped up and ready to go. It helped a bit. He took his bad mood out on his breakfast, chomping it down, and glaring at anyone who dared speak to him. 

Jody takes one look and says, “went that well did it?” before backing away with her hands up.

He needed something else to clear his head. There was nothing in the vicinity but empty countryside and in the end that decided it for him. He’d do something he’d never done before and go for a walk (what an utterly pointless thing to do when there wasn’t a specific destination, he never had been able to understand why it was so popular with some people). At least the open air and exercise might blow away the cobwebs and clear his head. There are leaflets in the hotel’s reception and a cute (but way too young) guy on the desk recommends an easy route that shouldn’t take too long and only skirts the boundary of Rosings Park. He doesn’t want to see the house; he doesn’t need the reminder.

He walks out the door. An hour or so later, he hears a bright and cheerful, “Good Morning, Dean.” He stops and slaps his hand over his face before turning around. Perfect, that’s just perfect. He grits his teeth.

“Hey, Inias,” he says with a sigh and waves him over.

Inias comes closer, steps from a rougher more over grown track onto the easier path Dean is following.

“This is a nice surprise. I hadn’t thought I’d get the chance to speak to you again before you left.” Dean, in all honesty, hadn’t thought they would ever speak again, but then Inias was all politeness – a lot like Sarah in many ways. How the fuck did Novak manage to stay in the good graces of people who were so very different to him. It made no sense. The only explanation Dean could come up with was that they were so kind themselves, that they were unable to perceive true unkindness in others.

“I was checking the boundary of the park, as I do each time I stay,” Inias explains. “Sometimes the fences are down, or trees if there’s been a storm. It helps me get a better idea of what needs doing. My path takes me a few miles this way, is it okay if I join you? I don’t want to intrude if you’d rather be alone.” How could anyone say no to Inias?

“I don’t mind the company.” They fall in side by side following the path through the woods, the trees thinning the further they go.

“Excellent. I sometimes forget that people don’t always share my enthusiasm for company,” he says artlessly. “My cousin used to tell me off for it when we were little but we can’t all have Castiel’s degree of thoughtfulness now can we?”

Thoughtfulness; well that was one way to put it. “No, we certainly can’t all have Castiel’s thoughtfulness.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice but Inias either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

“Do you live here at the hotel?” Dean asks out of politeness more than a desire to know.

He shakes his head. “Not permanently. I have an apartment in New York but I never spend much time there. Between Castiel and my aunt most of my time is spent managing and looking after various family business interests, the hotels are my purview.” He points in what must be the direction of the Park.

“You don’t mind being ordered around?” Dean shudders at the thought. He’d take shit from Bobby, or Ellen, when necessary for work. It was the same way with his dad, but it was always done with a side of rough affection and room for manoeuvre if Dean disagreed. He couldn’t imagine being ordered around by someone as cold as Castiel.

“That’s a funny way to look at it,” Inias says. He looks puzzled but not offended. “Another way to look at it, is that I get to spend my time helping my family. I do a job I enjoy, I’m good at it, and I get well paid to do it. I wasn’t the brightest at school, you know, not like Castiel. I could never do what he does,” there is concern in his voice. “I couldn’t bear the weight of the responsibility at Novak Corp. all the decisions, all the stress. No, no. I’m much better with people, and here, that’s exactly what I get to do.”

“I don’t think Castiel sees power as a responsibility,” Dean says. “I’ve never met anyone who enjoys getting their own way as much as Castiel does; and that’s what power is isn’t it, getting your own way all the time?”

Inias stops and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him as well. He looks serious and sad and Dean starts to apologise. He realises only then how badly he has overstepped in criticising Novak to one of his own relatives. He half expects to feel a fist land against his jaw – it’s what he’d do if someone talked about Sam like that (though no one would talk about Sam like that).

“Castiel does like to have his own way,” Inias says to head off Dean’s mumbled apology. “Just like we all do and I suppose he’s more used to having it too, since he has more resources, and more people willing to help him, than most. But, Dean, I’m surprised you think he would actually enjoy having power over other people.”

“It’s just the impression I get,” he says at last. “I don’t really know Castiel that well.” It’s enough to smooth over the awkward moment.

“I’m surprised to hear that,” he says. “But I can assure you he isn’t like that at all.” They start walking again, sticks snapping underfoot with every step along the dirt track. Inias keeps talking. “Can you imagine it though, Dean? Sitting in stuffy meetings day after day, looking at numbers and charts and knowing that every decision you make will affect the lives of thousands of people; people that depend on the Novak Corporation for their jobs and their security? Every choice Castiel makes has an impact on someone somewhere and he struggles with it all the time.” Inias shakes his head. “He’s very protective you know, not just of his family and friends, but the company and employees as well.”

“Like he is with his sister?” Dean surmises.

“Well, yes, he is very protective of his sister and with good cause.” For the first time in all their interactions Inias looks uncomfortable but he makes a valiant effort to brush it off with a toothy smile.

“I’ve only heard good things about her,” Dean feels compelled to reassure him, “from Sarah Blake and her sisters. I guess you know them?”

“A little yes, Sarah’s a great friend of Castiel’s, and he has a lot of care for her happiness.” He pauses, then smiles as if remembering a joke. “He congratulates himself on recently saving her from a troublesome romantic entanglement. He didn’t name any names, but he doesn’t have so many friends, it wasn’t difficult to work out he was talking about Sarah.”

What?

“What was his problem with the relationship?” Dean says, trying to keep his tone measured and calm, while ice slips down his spine and into his blood stream. He shivers. It’s incongruous with the warm summer sun that shines down on them, dappled, through the canopy above.

“I think there was some question over the intentions of the young man.”

“What exactly did Castiel do?” Dean tries his best to sound disinterested.

“I don’t know for sure. He didn’t give me any more details than I’ve given you.”

Dean grows more indignant by the minute. It swells up and hardens until its heavy in his stomach. “Why did he think it was his business to interfere?”

“You don’t think he should protect his friends from getting hurt?” Inias asks, “If he can?”

“I don’t think Castiel has any right to decide who his friends can and can’t get involved with.” Dean glowers. Thankfully Inias doesn’t seem to notice. “But perhaps it wasn’t very serious between Sarah and her friend.”

“It’s likely that’s the case. But that would lessen my cousin’s triumph don’t you think?” It was spoken as a joke. But Dean couldn’t laugh. Inias had been so close to making Dean reconsider some of his ideas about Novak, but this one thing confirmed them.

Unable to keep talking without running the risk of his anger exploding out of his ears at any moment, Dean changes the subject. Inias gets the hint at last and makes no more mention of Novak or Sarah Blake. They said goodbye on the turn of the track, where it runs back up towards Dean’s hotel. Inias seems like a decent guy but Dean isn’t sorry to see him go.

What had Sam ever done to deserve Novak’s contempt? Nothing. The asshole could hate Dean for all he was worth, pour scorn on him for being poor, and stupid, and easy, whatever; but Sam was good, he was hard working, and decent and Sarah would be damn lucky to have him.

By the time Dean got back to his shitty little apartment in Kansas, he had already viciously imagined all sorts of horrible things that could befall the mighty Castiel Novak. He slept well that night. There was no confusion. Bela was right. Castiel Novak was an asshole and Dean wasn’t going waste anymore time thinking about him.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

The buzzer coughs and splutters for attention. It’s been an irritant to Dean ever since he moved in. He hasn’t got around to fixing it because he almost never has visitors. Sam was allowed in, of course, sometimes Bobby, and once Garth (never again). He wasn’t sure anyone else even had his address. Right now Sam was in California, Bobby was at work, where Garth had agreed to cover Dean’s shift; so who is the annoying fucker with his finger on the wrong button?

He’s taken the afternoon off to try a rosemary and lemon sourdough recipe and he’ll be damned anything is going to stop him from doing just that. The Bake-Off is exactly half way through and Dean isn’t about to let the prize money slip away through lack of practise. It’s just a shame he happens to be holding a bag of flour at the exact moment the obnoxious noise goes off. It makes him jump and the flour goes up in a smoke-like puff of white as he flinches. It falls onto the counter but manages to stay upright and leaves a dusting of flour on Dean’s hands and forearms.

He wipes his fingers on his jeans as he goes to the door. He’s left too many mucky handprints around his apartment since he started on the Bake-Off. The old place was ratty already. He could do without attracting flies or anything even more unsavoury.

Talking of unsavoury...

“Yeah,” Dean grouches into the intercom, cutting off the insistent noise.

“Is that... I’m looking for Dean Winchester.” The voice is distorted but it’s deep and solemn and a bit like... Nah it can’t be. A shiver trips down the back of Dean’s neck, he shakes it in an attempt to get rid of the cold uncanny feeling creeping over his skin.

He asks slowly, “who is this?”

“Castiel Novak.” The confirmation is unwelcome.

What the fucking-fuck is he doing here? Dean’s mind speeds through a half dozen scenarios but still can’t find a rational answer to the question.

“Is that you, Dean?” Novak asks a moment later.

Shit. Dean has to do something and do it fast. He considers a denial. He could leave Castiel on the doorstep and hide in the apartment. But what if he doesn’t go away? What if Novak uses his weird robotic powers and simply stays there, powered down? He takes a moment to consider becoming a recluse but it’s not really a practical option in the long run. He has to answer, and for the sake of a peaceful Bake-Off (for whatever time they have left on the show), Dean’s going to have to open the door.

It is not a pleasant prospect. Novak is the last person Dean wants to see and definitely the last person he wants to invite into his home. Crappy as it is, its still Dean’s space with all his things in it, the odds and ends that make up his less than stellar life. He hates the idea of being exposed like that but at the same time why should Dean be ashamed or self-conscious? He is who he is, and doesn’t intend to apologise for it – at least he doesn’t go around ruining other people’s lives on a whim.

Oh, fuck it.

“Yeah, you found me,” he says at last. “I’m on the first floor, come on up.” He presses the entry button, the click as the lock releases echoes up the bare hallway. The wooden stairs creak and Dean doesn’t have to guess when Castiel reaches his front door.

He yanks it open before Novak gets a chance to knock. From the tense stance, one hand still raised in an aborted knock, he wasn’t expecting it (ha! That’s for the doorbell and the flour explosion, asshat).

Dean grunts, “Better come in then, I suppose.” Trying to imbue it with all the reluctance he can muster. He can’t imagine what brought Novak to his door, or that he would choose to be here anymore than Dean wants him there, so the visit should at least be mercifully short.

Novak steps over the threshold before Dean has even finished speaking, walking into the apartment as if he owns it. Who knows, perhaps he does, there’s probably some real estate somewhere in his portfolio. Maybe he’s here to gloat while serving an eviction notice?

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Castiel apologises. He looks out of place in Dean’s tiny living room; his leg brushes the coffee-table by the worn out couch and if he stretches one arm he’d be able to touch the wall on the other side of the room. “Is it a bad time?” he asks as he looks at Dean’s hands, then down at the finger trails of powder that bisect the legs of his jeans. One eyebrow lifts in question, “Perhaps I should come back later, at a better time?”

There’s a dishtowel hanging in limp folds over the back of a chair. Dean snags it. “It’s not a bad time,” he says slinging the ragged thing over his shoulder. He leans back on the doorframe that separates the living space from the narrow kitchen – there’s no door, there never had been, just a set of vacant old hinges that reach out to catch unsuspecting clothes when anyone passes. “I was just practising for next week.” Dean frowns and folds his arms over his chest. “Can I help you with something, Castiel, is there something you want?” That got a reaction. Novak’s eyes flick up to meet Dean’s before darting away; strange, he’s normally the haughty-stare type. “I’m really struggling to work out what the hell you’re doing here, Castiel. I know I didn’t invite you.”

He looks strange, fingers tapping out a beat against his leg as he looks around, and Dean feels the first tingle of alarm at the odd behaviour.

“What’s going on? Has something happened with the Show? Pam? Sarah?” he asks, casting about for a reason, any reason, to explain Novak’s unwanted presence.

Castiel takes a couple of steps, moves to the scratched up old table that holds Dean’s research. “No,” Castiel says absently as he pushes scraps of paper around with a fingertip looking over the scribbled notes and half written recipes. If Dean hadn’t started to freak out with that first curl of panic he’d probably be pretty pissed about it. No wait, he is pissed about it.

“I was in the area for work.” Novak says at last.

“So you thought you’d come around and what? Get a look at the opposition?” To Dean’s amazement Novak rolls his eyes and sighs as if Dean’s being incredibly stupid.

“No. I just thought... well Pam told me where you lived nearby, so I thought I’d come and...” he squints as he looks at Dean. “You said I should make more of an effort with people, be friendlier. You did say that.” There’s a quiver in his voice, hesitation. Fuck, Dean had said something like that but he sure as hell didn’t mean this. Dean didn’t want Castiel’s friendship. Novak’s head tilts and his brows pull further together. “You said it when we had dinner together at Rosings?”

And that makes it sound like they went on a date, which is a super creepy thought. Dean closes his eyes and quells the urge to pick Novak up and shove him bodily out of the apartment. Taking a deep breath, and at a total loss for what else to do Dean asks, “Do you want a coffee or something? I think Sam left some of that herb tea crap the last time he stayed if that’s your kind of thing?”

“No, thank you, I’m perfectly fine.” Novak looks as uncomfortable as Dean feels, “I noticed there is a coffee shop down the street; we could go there if you want one.”

“Nope,” he replies looking down at his floury clothes. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.” That reminds him, there’s dough proving in the kitchen from an earlier effort that needs to be covered and put somewhere warm. It took Dean three days to make that stupid sourdough-starter; he isn’t going to mess it up on the first try. “I’ll be back in a minute,” Dean promises and escapes the room.

Small creaking sounds tell him Novak is shifting about on the uncomfortable chair. Thank God he didn’t follow him into the kitchen; the idea of being trapped in the tight space with Novak is just... no.

“This apartment must be very convenient for your work,” Castiel says when Dean walks back in, hands freshly washed and the rag of a towel gone from his shoulder. “You work at the auto shop, down the street, that’s right isn’t it?” He looks concerned when Dean frowns.

“Yeah that’s right,” Dean replies cautiously. Without anything else to do, Dean sits on the couch. He perches on the edge instead of sinking down into the soggy cushions like he normally would, unwilling to let his guard down.

Dean jerks back automatically when Novak stands suddenly and moves closer. Which, to be fair, is inevitable as there’s no space to go anywhere else. His eyebrows are drawn together as he plucks a magazine from the pile that sits haphazardly on the corner of the coffee-table, some kids baking magazine that Ellen had picked up for a special feature on cupcakes, trying to be helpful. Dean can see disapproval on Castiel’s face as he flicks through the pastel pages.

“You can borrow it if you want?” He tries in vain to hide a smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“No, but thank you,” Novak says, too sombre, the joke flies at least ten feet over his head and flaps away into the distance as Dean waves it goodbye. “I already know how to make cupcakes,” he adds ruefully. “Sarah’s very fond of them.”  

Instead of returning to the rickety wooden chair, Castiel bends to sit on the couch beside him. Dean doesn’t like it but he can’t really blame the guy for moving since that chair is practically a torture device; ridiculously uncomfortable, he’s been meaning to find something to replace it for months. There is contact, Novak’s knee brushing lightly against Dean’s thigh. The thin cloth of Castiel’s pants does nothing to stop the body heat that rolls off him in waves seeping through the denim of Dean’s jeans. Dean tries to move to the side and out of the way. But the space is tight and there is nowhere to go without giving away just how uncomfortable he is. He doesn’t want to give Novak the satisfaction.

There seems to be a sudden lack of air, what’s left is too warm, too heavy with Dean’s resentment and distrust. He tries to think of something innocuous to say to distract from the growing tension. The sooner this visit is over the better. The Bake-Off seems a safe option, since it’s the only thing they have in common, the only life experience they will ever share.

“Do you remember the cake that Charlie made...” Dean starts.

He gets no further.

“I didn’t come here to talk about the competition, Dean.” Novak cuts him off. He breaks eye contact, looks down at his knees like he’ll find the answer to all his problems woven into the cloth of his pants. Caught between Novak’s grave delivery and his own confusion, Dean does something quite unlike himself; he shuts up. “For a while now I’ve wanted to tell you that I am sorry for what happened in New York. I was out of my comfort zone, I was tired, and I was unreasonably severe...”

“It’s forgotten.” Dean cuts him off before Novak can get any weirder. The apology is way too late.  As far as Dean is concerned those first stinging insults were merely a footnote to an ever increasing list of greater unkindness, much worse crimes. 

Novak hesitates. One hand lifts to rub, unconsciously, over the back of his neck then drops back to his lap as he realises what he’s doing. He clears his throat and takes a breath before going on. “That’s not what I...” Novak lifts his gaze and Dean is struck by the confusion he sees in the dark blue eyes.

This is getting weirder by the minute and Dean has to shove down a strong urge to make a run for it.

“What I mean to say is...” Novak’s voice drops down so low it’s practically crawling along the floor. The next three words are little more than a growl, a rumble that carries through the air and makes Dean shiver. The hairs on his arm stand to attention as if it were a caress. “Dean, I wish...” Novak stutters to a stop, blinks, and in that fraction of a second the cloud of confusion lifts from his eyes to be replaced with determination.

A hand closes around Dean’s thigh. Fingers that are not Dean’s own clench and dig into the muscle there. There’s a rustle of fabric as Novak moves but all Dean sees is a blur of movement. His vision fills with impressions of colour; indistinct patches of blue and black, pink and tan. It happens so quickly he can’t process the spiralling sequence of events. Any ounce of sense Dean has left flees the building at the first slide of a wet mouth against his own.

Dean’s dazzled for a moment by the press and cling of lips, the warm weight of a long lean body crowded close. His body responds in the way it’s been taught. This is a routine it knows, a dance well studied and long since passed into muscle memory. Traitorous want murmurs encouragement in Dean’s ear before it slinks down and curls at the base of his spine; he mindlessly opens his mouth.

He kisses back.

It takes a few seconds for Dean’s mind to catch up with his body, to remind him that this is not a thing he wants. This is not a man he wants, not now, not ever. No matter how soft and pliant Novak’s lips are – huh, he would have thought they’d be rough from the way they look – and that is so not the point right now Dean, for fuck’s sake.

Castiel shifts to lean further over, starts to drag Dean down onto the seat of the couch, unsubtly trying to put him on his back; that and the swipe of a tongue in his mouth is more than enough to kickstart his brain. He kicks into action too and shoves Novak away, hard. Hard enough that he falls back against the opposite arm of the couch with a grunt as the air is knocked loose from his lungs.

There’s a mess of mixed reactions seething under Dean’s skin – embarrassment, shock, nausea, a lingering hint of arousal – they all fall back, fade to nothing under the blinding white of his anger. When he gets to his feet, he’s shaking with it, and has to clench his hands into fists at his side to keep them under control.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands to know.

There is wide-eyed innocence on Castiel’s face and a wounded look. It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting Dean to push him away.

“A kiss,” Castiel says and wipes a hand across his mouth to remove the shine of saliva still clinging to his lips. “I should have thought that was obvious.” Dean’s stomach turns over; he feels sick, and that explains the slightly odd feeling roiling in his gut doesn’t it?

Castiel moves to stand and Dean steps away automatically, lifting his hands to make a barrier between them. He’s not afraid. He’s pretty sure he could take Novak down if he had to. He just doesn’t want any misunderstandings.

“Just a second there, buddy,” Dean sneers. Castiel stops, sits back down straight away, proving he hasn’t completely lost his senses. “What in hell made you think I wouldever want you to do that?”

Castiel looks at him and his customary frown has made its reappearance already. “I thought... I was under the impression that you would welcome this sort of attention.”

Dean takes another step back to make sure there’s plenty of space between them. He laughs in disbelief. “Well, whatever impression you were under, you can fucking think again. I don’t want anything to do with you.” He shakes his head, this is unbelievable. “Jesus Christ, this is bullshit. I don’t even fucking like you, Novak; I never have.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of Castiel’s eye; the only sign of discomfort discernible. “But in New York,” he says, “you approached me. You made it very clear that you were interested in me... romantically.”

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes,” Dean snaps back. “I didn’t know you then. I thought you might be a decent guy but we all know better now don’t we.” The vehemence of his own voice comes as a surprise, but he presses on, unable to stop the words pouring out. “It didn’t take more than a few hours for me to realise how wrong I’d been about that and for all of us to see that you’re nothing but a pretentious little shit.”

Novak’s face falls from a frown to a scowl and he stands up, lifts his head into the air, holding firm under Dean’s ongoing attack.

“Is there even anything going on behind those freaky-ass eyes of yours Novak?” Dean’s voice grows as he lashes out. It gets louder, fills the room with anger and spite, releasing at once all the weeks of built up irritation and resentment. “Do you have any proper feelings at all? You’re like a robot. Like some soulless thing with no thought for anything unless it’s what’s best for Castiel Novak.”

Dean’s face is heated and he’s breathing heavily as he finishes his rant. Somehow, he’s moved back into Novak’s space but now it’s threatening. There’s aggression in the air and they stare each other down. Novak doesn’t even blink. Jesus, Dean wants to shake him, or punch him in the mouth, anything to get a response and prove he’s human.

Castiel stands there frozen like a marble statue, cold and hard and still. “What’s best for me?” he asks incredulously. “What advantage do you possibly think there would be in this for me?” Novak waves a hand between them. “If I was motivated by self-interest, then why would I approach you, Dean, of all people?”

Dean snorts, uninterested in anything Novak has to say.

Castiel ignores him and carries on. “You have nothing, Dean. You’re nobody.” He looks around at Dean’s crappy living space as if to emphasise the point. Dean is painfully aware of the cracks in the ceiling plaster, the brown bloom on the wall where a pipe sprung a leak last year, the cobwebs in the corners, and his things piled up, messy and haphazard from the lack of storage. “If there was any advantage to be had, it would all be on your side, believe me. Your manners are rough, at times you are loud and uncouth, and you wear your poverty as if it’s a badge of honour instead of something to strive against. Your brother, at least, has the sense to aspire to something better.”

Dean stares at him, amazed, eyes growing wider and wider at each fresh insult. “Then what the fuck are you doing here? You came to me remember.”

“Yes I did,” Castiel says. “I came because despite every rational thought I’ve had, and every argument I could think of against it, I can’t stop thinking about you, Dean. I have struggled against it believe me, for myself, for my family, and for my friends. I can’t help the way I feel, and I can’t seem to stop it, so I’m willing to ignore all that in order to get to know you better. It’s what I want.”

“And you’re used to getting whatever you want huh?” Dean says, while barely repressed rage paints spots of high colour on his face.

Novak nods, honest as always, missing or ignoring the venom in Dean’s voice. “Dean, I’m sure by now you are well aware of my position and the importance of my family’s company, so you must know that there are many things, many advantages, that I could offer you if...”

“Stop,” Dean says loudly. It takes Novak by surprise and he stands there with his mouth open mid-speech. “Just stop right there before you say something we’re both going to regret.” His fingers twitch, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Right now Dean wants to release his anger. He wants to feel Castiel’s bones fracture under the blow of his hands or break his face into pieces. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where Novak is headed with this line of reasoning and the implication of it burns brighter than any other slur he could throw Dean’s way. The idea that Dean could be bought – in favours and partiality if not in cold hard cash – strikes a raw nerve, like the drag of a knife point over sensitive skin.

“I’m not interested in making any kind of deal with you, Mr Novak,” he spits Castiel’s name, his precious family name, into his face as if it’s a curse. “Go make your offer to someone else. Now get out.” He lays hands on Novak at last and pushes him backwards towards the door.

Novak stumbles over his own feet for a moment before righting himself. “And that’s it?” he asks. He looks confused like he can’t work out what he’s done wrong, or why Dean isn’t instantly giving him exactly what he wants. “It wasn’t easy for me to come here and confess this to you, Dean; I struggled with this.”

“Are you being serious right now?” Dean asks. “You should be grateful I haven’t punched you in the mouth already.” Castiel blinks, once, a quick flash of dark eyelashes, the barest hint of a reaction. If he’s surprised when Dean steps into his space he doesn’t show it and stands his ground as Dean prods at his chest with one thick finger. “Man, you are something else. Did you think I’d be grateful to know that you think I’m nothing? That you think I’m some idiot that’ll get on my back for a few bucks and an easy life? Even for someone I can’t stand?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I don’t...” Castiel says quickly managing to sound annoyed, as if he has a right to be offended.

“You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but you’re just another rich asshole who doesn’t give a fuck about other people. And you know what? Even if I thought you were okay. Even if you hadn’t just decided to tell me how pathetic my life is and how I should be grateful that you’ve bothered to notice me, do you really think I’d forget about what you’ve done to Sam?” Dean tells him. “They were getting along just fine until you sent Sarah away. What I can’t work out is whether your problem is with Sam, or if it’s because he’s my brother?”

“I only ever acted to protect my friend and I’m not sorry for that.” Novak says. “I don’t know Sam very well and I was worried he was using Sarah to further his career. I’ve seen it happen before. Anyway, it’s done and I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Dean scoffs. “You hurt my brother and you don’t think it’s relevant when you come here to try and get into my pants? Fuck! You really don’t have a clue about family do you? I feel sorry for your sister.”

Castiel’s head jerks up at the mention of his sister and he fixes Dean with a cold stare.

Dean shakes his head and goes in for the final blow. “If that wasn’t bad enough, there’s what you did to Bela.”

“Bela?” Castiel looks stunned while Dean smirks (a hit and a score). “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I have no interest in prying into that woman’s business and I don’t see why you should be concerned about it either,” Castiel replies coldly.

“She’s a friend,” Dean says, “like she was to you before you wrecked her life. Perhaps you should look it up, since you obviously don’t know what the word means.”

“You’ve said enough, Dean.” Castiel holds up a long fingered hand in surrender. “I perfectly understand your feelings and I’m sorry for imposing my own on you. It was a mistake and I shouldn’t have come here.” He nods, bobbing forward slightly into an aborted half bow. It would be funny if not for the tension pulling the air out of shape around them. It presses on Dean’s chest, making his breathing laboured. “Please accept my apologies, I won’t trouble you again.”

Novak’s retreat is measured. His footfalls land with a regular thump, as he goes down the rotten staircase, and end abruptly with the slam of the front door. There is no haste in his step, no rush, just resignation, and then he is gone (forever, with any luck).

The urge to look out the window is strong but Dean resists it. Instead he stands there dumbfounded, staring from the open door of his apartment. Traces of his fury remain trapped under his skin and heat prickles in his face confirming, yes, that really did just happen. It’s all so unreal, so unexpected, that without the evidence he wouldn’t believe it. 

Dean doesn’t see Novak come to a stop on the sidewalk outside. He presses a hand to his chest, head bowed, eyes closed as he breathes deeply for the space of a few heartbeats that thud, heavy and slow, behind his ribs. A few seconds, no longer; Castiel does not allow himself to wallow in his disappointment though he feels it keenly. Cold and hard, like a shard of ice has pierced his skin and sunk to the centre of his body. He had hoped but he had been mistaken. He will learn from this experience like any other. He will move on and in time he will forget Dean Winchester ever existed.

The late afternoon sun is warm on Castiel’s back. The light catches in shop fronts and flashes from the windows of passing cars. It gets in his eyes and makes him blink as he starts to walk away. He doesn’t look back.

The hotel is only a few blocks away. With the day being so fine, he’d chosen to go on foot instead of calling for the car. At the time, the decision had seemed hopeful – to go against his usual habits when he was about to do something extraordinary – now he feels like a fool. He can’t wait to get off the street, away from prying eyes and the squinty puzzled look people get when they recognise his face but can’t quite place it. It’s the bane of his life and he doesn’t want to deal with it on top of the confusion and regret clamouring for attention in his head. He puts on the mask he uses as a shield, fixes a scowl in place, and increases the tempo of his steps.

How had he gotten it so wrong? A hundred question-marks hang over every look, every word, every clue Castiel had taken to suggest that Dean might return his interest. As he examines them they swell and burst open casting everything into doubt in the cold light of day. Had he, Castiel Novak – who prides himself on his ability to analyse a situation with dispassionate objectivity – been so thrown by this irritating, blustering, fascinating man, that he’d taken leave of his senses and misunderstood every interaction?

The party at Netherfield had been the tipping point; the moment when an idle fancy for green eyes and a handsome face had tripped over into the realm of possibility. Dean had joked with Castiel that night, teased him, kept him talking at the bar for no other reason than to have his company; or so he’d thought – it didn’t seem so clear under the glare of rejection.

Then there was Rosings Park, the factor that had finally pushed Castiel into taking action. The final puzzle piece that led him to believe Dean might welcome his attention (was it so crazy to think that? When Dean had all but climbed into his lap the first time they met). It hadn’t been Castiel’s idea to invite Dean to dinner but he’d been happy, and perhaps a little flattered, when Inias told him Dean had agreed. Why would Dean accept an invitation to spend time with Castiel and his family if he was so disgusted by him? It made no sense.

Dean had been a marvel that night. People were normally intimidated by Castiel’s old-world aunt but Dean had thrived under her glare, holding his ground where others would quail, feint and retreat. There was more teasing. This time directed at Castiel’s awkwardness and wasn’t that what friends did? Castiel had even asked Pam for her opinion. She’d been unequivocal in her assurances that Dean wouldn’t pay attention to Castiel if he wasn’t interested. He’d been so satisfied with her answer he’d ignored the added, “Even if he doesn’t know what’s good for him, right now.” Why hadn’t he paid more attention?

“Good afternoon, Mr Novak,” the concierge calls out as he goes by the front desk. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She’s young, keen to help, and a little starry-eyed at having the CEO of the Novak Corporation staying in what was really only a mediocre hotel. He’d only chosen it for the proximity to Dean’s home.

He walks past, shaking his head before changing his mind and turning back. He’s feeling strange. There is discomfort, agitation itching under his skin that hasn’t faded at all during his walk.

“Can you have a bottle of whiskey sent to my room? Single malt, whatever the bartender recommends will be fine,” he says, smiling politely as she beams up at him.

“Certainly sir, right away,” she says and scampers off. If only everyone was so happy to speak to him, he thinks sourly.

This endeavour was not something Castiel had entered into lightly. He’d struggled with the way he felt. Spent weeks telling himself it was nothing more than an aberration, a reaction to work stress, or an over-reaction to feeling a spark of interest after years without so much as a date. After Rosings, when he’d finally accepted that the attraction was real and deserved to be explored, he’d considered how to approach Dean. Planned it based on what he already knew of the man.

Nothing had happened the way Castiel had intended. Where Dean was concerned, everything had a habit of turning upside down; all of his best laid plans went careening off the tracks with little more than a look or a word. His only intention that day was to talk to Dean, to find out if he would be likely to accept an invitation to dinner and, if so, to make the offer in the traditional way. Approaching him at home looked like the best option, since Dean had shown strong attachments to familiar things and familiar spaces – like the way Dean was about his car. Home ground would put Dean at ease and avoid any undue influence from being in a setting related to the show (Dean had voiced his dislike of the “fancy-ass” hotels the contestants usually stayed in, more than once). 

That was Castiel’s plan. The kiss had not been a part of it.  

A knock at the door interrupts Castiel’s dreary reflections. The bar tender had brought the bottle up personally. Castiel sends the man away with an outrageously large tip, grudging the small talk he is forced to make while the whiskey is handed over. The first mouthful is fiery and scorches a line down the back of his throat. It’s exactly what he needs to get through what must be done.

He sits at the table with his computer open. Almost spills whiskey on it as he attempts to refill his empty glass with one hand while the other clicks to open his private email account. The cursor blinks at him balefully from the corner of a blank message and his courage fails him. He leans back scrubbing his palms over his face. The blue tinged light of the screen is blocked and for a moment, behind his fingers, darkness falls. The low flame of alcohol in his system warms him from the inside, curling out from his stomach to blur and soften the edges of his disappointment.

There is something else in the dark with him. It comes in flashes, fragments of memory he doesn’t want, but they coalesce into a whole, without permission. The unexpected stab of want that propelled him into Dean’s space, the rush of adrenaline as their mouths met and joy when Dean reciprocated, a glorious moment when they were on the same page, or so it had seemed. Had Castiel imagined it? Had he imagined the movement of Dean’s lips against his own, the warm press of Dean’s tongue into his mouth, the way Dean’s hand slipped up and over his side, to rest like a warm weight at the base of Castiel’s spine, holding them together. It was a tortuous glimpse of what might have been. There one minute and gone the next.

He was aware he had horribly misread the signs, accepted only the positives and disregarded the rest. The scribbled notes on Dean’s table should have been enough to give him pause. The sight of his own name, written in Dean’s hand, had pleased him enough that he’d ignored the other words, not particularly nice words, which circled like inky sharks around a kill. Castiel had only seen what he wanted to see. Perhaps Dean was right about him being self-centred.

This was a new thought, a new concept of himself that he needed time to think over, but there was no time for that yet. Whatever charges Dean had laid against his character, justified or not, there were other accusations he could not let pass. Dean did not care for him. That was a truth Castiel could accept. It didn’t mean he was willing to let Dean go on thinking the worst of him because of the lies and half-truths of someone who didn’t deserve Dean’s trust.

He opens his eyes, sits up straight in the uncomfortable chair, swallows another mouthful of liquid courage, and starts to type.

_Dean,_

_Forgive me for contacting you like this. Pamela gave me your email address some time ago – I did not ask her for it, she volunteered it. I don’t know how she knew I would want it but now I am grateful to have the opportunity to put a few things straight._

_First, I would like to apologise again for what happened between us. I did not set out with the intension of offending or harassing you. On the contrary, I honestly believed that you might be open to exploring a friendship between us. You made it very clear that this is not the case. I respect your decision and you can be assured that there will be no repeat of those actions or declarations that were so disgusting to you. I was too forward and I am ashamed to think of it. It will not happen again._

_Second, I would like to say that I have thought about the things you said and I feel that you were not entirely wrong in some of your remarks about the flaws in my character. I thank you for drawing them to my attention. This unfortunate business has made me realise that I do not know myself as well as I should and I intend to work to correct that in the future. After reflecting on some of the things you said, I think it very likely that you also misunderstood my intention, perhaps due to the unfortunately physical way I chose to express it. I did not plan on kissing you, Dean. It was an entirely spur-of-the-moment decision based on the incorrect assumption that you would welcome it. I did it because I like you and I wanted to get to know you better. In no way did I mean to imply that I wanted to enter into any kind of financial arrangement with you for services rendered, or that I thought for one minute that you would be interested in doing so._

_Third, you charged me with causing trouble for your brother and to Miss Bela Talbot. I feel I should be allowed the opportunity to respond to these allegations and clear my name. I don’t know what lies Bela has told you, so the only way I can defend myself against them is by telling you the truth. If you have doubts about my honesty you can ask my cousin Inias for confirmation, as he knows all the particulars of the case._

_Bela is the daughter of a close friend of my family, one of my father’s business associates. We spent a lot of time together as children, attended the same schools, and although she is a few years younger than me, I always thought of her, and treated her, as a friend. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a teenager, and only then did we find out that they had lost most of their money to a series of bad investments. They were almost destitute at the end and once their debts were paid there was nothing left to provide for Bela._

_With no other family willing to care for her, my father became her legal guardian and looked after her, as a daughter, through school and later through college. Although by then, her habits were becoming a concern. She tended towards laziness and hedonism. She enjoyed causing trouble for her peers, setting people against each other, starting rumours and more than one faculty member was dismissed as a consequence of her schemes. She quit college not long after that._

_My father passed away a few years later. In his will, he left Bela a fair amount of money and expressed a wish that she should use it to finish college and afterwards join the company. She declined the offer of a job outright, and asked to be compensated instead with a larger sum of money. I was unhappy going against my father’s wishes but she was determined, and in the end I agreed. She took the money and disappeared. We didn’t see her again for years. I don’t know where she went or how she lived, and I thought all connection between us was over._

_Then, a couple of years ago, our paths crossed again, in a way I would rather forget, as it relates to my sister. Anna is more than ten years younger than me and, since our parents died, I have tried to care for her as well as I can. She’s very fond of art and has more than a little talent, so, a few years ago when she was fifteen, she asked if she could study in Europe. I was hesitant to let her go but she was so excited that I let her persuade me. Inias and I found a small international school in Paris where we thought she would be well looked after. She loved it there and was always happy when we spoke on the phone._

_After about six months, her calls became less frequent, she stopped replying to emails and texts, and when she did get in touch she was strange, distant, and quiet. She was supposed to come home for the summer but a few weeks before the end of term the head of the school called us in a panic. Anna had run away. She disappeared and for months we had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. When we looked into it, we found out that her bank account had been emptied; regular cash withdrawals over a number of weeks before she left, none of them large enough to raise any kind of alarm individually, but together it was a large sum of money._

_Inias and I searched for her for months. Nearly half a year of worry and stress, phone calls from police around the world, at each grim discovery that, fortunately for us, all turned out to be false (though there is little comfort in knowing that this girl, or that girl, is not the one you’re looking for. They are all lost, all victims, and each one just as devastating, whether they share your name and your blood or not). Eventually we had news that she had been seen in Italy by a school friend and we were able to track her down._

_She was in Rome, in a flea-infested apartment. I wasn’t there but I was told afterwards, at the hospital, that when they found her, she was alone and unconscious in a freezing room with no food and no money. If they’d arrived even a day later, it might have been too late. I will not go into details, for the sake of my sister, but it was Bela who was the cause of all this trouble._

_Whether by coincidence or design I do not know, but Bela found Anna in Paris. She introduced my sister to a lot of dangerous, damaged people, gave her drugs, and persuaded her that an artist had to live life on the edge. At some point, Anna had given Bela access to her money, though she can’t remember clearly how or when or why. They travelled from country to country spending the money as they went, until they arrived in Italy, where Bela took what was left and abandoned her. She was barely sixteen years old, alone, with no money and no one to help her; too ashamed of what she’d done to contact us._

_I brought Anna home and she is, to my eternal relief, very much recovered from the experience. She blames herself and just wants to forget about it. She begged us not to pursue Bela through the courts, for her role in what happened, as it would no doubt only be fodder for the gossip magazines. So far, we have managed to keep all of this from public consumption, and likewise, I will ask you to keep this information to yourself. It is painful to me and to my sister to be reminded of it. If I can protect her from further distress, I will do it. I am sure you can understand my motivation being an older brother yourself._

_I have nothing more to offer about Bela, but I hope this account will at least clear me from the allegation of cruelty towards her, and I can only apologise that my insistence on keeping this a private matter, allowed her to impose on you with her lies._

_The second charge that you made against me was that regardless of the feelings of either, I separated my good friend Sarah Blake from your brother. I won’t deny it. Though it was hardly the Machiavellian scheme you seem to think. I simply believed that there was not much affection on your brother’s part, and therefore, I was suspicious of his motives in forming a romantic relationship with my friend. I voiced my concern to Sarah’s sisters and they assured me that I was right, and that they had also been suspicious, since Sarah had been introducing Sam to a lot of people who could help further his law career. It was at their suggestion that I kept Sarah busy with business matters. They assured me that she was not very attached and that she would get over it quickly._

_If I misread the situation, then I am sorry for it, and sorry for any pain these actions have caused your brother. It is done, however, and it was done with the best intensions, and based on impartial conviction. I have no further apologies to make on the matter._

_For the last time, let me apologise for my mistake earlier today. I hope, now that you are aware of all the circumstances, we can put it behind us and be civil during the last of the Bake-Off shoots._

_Despite this unfortunate event, I want you to know that I wish you all the best for the future._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Castiel Novak_

Dean rocks back on his chair making the legs groan in protest. He pulls in a deep breath before sharply exhaling. Dean’s stomach coils in anger and he wants to shout at the screen, has to restrain his hands from throwing his poor old laptop out the window in disgust. He steadies himself and brings his bubbling irritation under control.

“Fuck, it’s too early for this crap,” he grumbles.

He’d barely slept last night after that asshole had come barging into his home with his assumptions and insults and stupidly soft lips, which to be honest, was a really confusing thing to deal with. At least Dean had known how to react at the time – with anger – even if his body was a bit slow to catch on (and he’s definitely ignoring the thing that happened in the shower afterwards).

Anger and annoyance Dean can handle. It rushes in his blood stream while he reads the email again to make doubly sure he hasn’t missed the part where it says THIS IS A JOKE. He doesn’t find it the second time or the third. What he does find is that he feels slightly sick, dizzy as his world shifts, shatters, and settles into a new landscape. His head aches and he rubs at it, massaging his temples with his fingertips before sinking his head into his hands, elbows resting on the table edge while Novak’s name taunts him from the bottom of the open message. 

What the hell was he supposed to do with this? It didn’t erase all the shit that Novak had done. It didn’t make him a different person to the one Dean had first met, but it did mean he might not the villain Dean had taken him for.

The stuff about Novak’s sister was heartbreaking and Dean had no doubt it was true. Whatever Castiel’s other sins might be, lying didn’t seem to be one of them. No one would invent such a nasty story involving their own sister. It had to be true. Christ, if anyone ever tried to hurt Sam like that they’d be lucky to live to see the inside of a jail cell. No wonder the guy had looked so horrified when Bela had appeared. Dean almost felt sorry for him; almost but not quite.

There was no forgiving Castiel for interfering in Sam and Sarah’s relationship. He claimed to be impartial but it didn’t look that way. If Sam had been rich, an equal, Castiel wouldn’t have questioned his motives. Sam’s background was the cause. His poverty and a life lived among people that worked with their hands to make ends meet. Impartial was the last thing Dean would call it.

The last traces of sleep press heavy on his eyelids and he rubs them. A long day stretches ahead of him; he needs to make up for missed hours in both jobs. Bobby and Ellen shouldn’t suffer because Dean is distracted by the Bake-Off or by being hit-on by freaky-ass rich guys.

He clicks the message closed and pushes the laptop across the table. He wants to be done with it, with the Bake-Off, with Novak, with Bela, and damn, did he feel like an idiot for buying into her bullshit. Why was that? It was clear from Castiel’s story that she was a con-artist but Dean had never been gullible and she’d played him like a fucking fiddle. She latched on to his dislike of Novak, hitting all the right notes to trigger Dean’s disgust; lack of family loyalty, jealous pride, and a selfish disregard for other people. She was good, he’d give her that much. She’d taken Dean’s assumptions and magnified them ten-fold, fed them right back to him, and he’d gobbled them up.

Why she would bother to target him was another question. Dean had nothing of value that she could take. Maybe she thought he was going to win the contest? Or maybe it wasn’t about Dean at all, maybe it was about hurting Castiel and ensuring everyone turned against him? They’d probably never know her true motivation. Dean is just glad that she’s already gone, disappeared into the wilds of Hollywood by all accounts. Good riddance. 

“That’s enough of that,” he tells himself.

He stands and stretches the kinks out of his spine with a groan. Enough of this pity-party crap. If there’s one thing Dean Winchester knows, it’s how to ignore all the crap and get on with what has to be done – and there is a lot to get done. There’s another shoot in less than two weeks, for a start, and he needs to get started on the prep. There is a big pot of money to win and it’s within reach if he works hard and doesn’t keep getting distracted by all this rich-people shit. They should learn to keep their games and petty vendettas to themselves (also their hands, and lips, and tongues, those should be kept them to themselves as well).


	4. Pemberley

**Part 4: Pemberley**

The Roadhouse is always busy on Friday night. Dean feels like he’s slacking, sitting on his ass, on the wrong side of the bar rolling a cool beer bottle between his hands while the room buzzes around him. Ellen insisted he take the night off after he told her Sam was in town.

“Go take care of your brother,” she’d said. “He’s putting on a good show but he isn’t happy. It’s painful to see.” She flicked her tatty bar-rag at his backside until she’d chased him out from behind the bar. “We don’t need you scaring the customers with that frown either, Dean, so for God’s sake go have some fun.” He tried to argue but Ellen wouldn’t have it. “We’ve managed without you while you’ve been playing with those fancy TV folk, so I think we can spare you for one more night.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” he replied and took out his phone to call Sam.

The jukebox is blaring in the background, mixing with the hum of voices in conversation and the knock of a cue as it splits apart the racked balls. The room is warm from the bodies that occupy every seat, soaking in alcohol, and atmosphere, and cosying up to each other as the night begins to gets blurry. It should raise Dean’s spirits, it should raise Sam’s, but it doesn’t and they sit at the bar talking quietly, while Ellen rolls her eyes at them from her look-out station in the corner.

Sam has made a valiant effort to be fine about what happened, or rather what didn’t happen, with Sarah. The fake smiles and feigned enthusiasm probably worked on everyone but the people who knew him best. Dean could see cracks in his cheerful facade – it wouldn’t take much to shatter it. On the phone, he sounded tired, voice dull and lifeless. It wasn’t much better in person, where Dean can see the shadows gathered under his eyes.

Without a better idea, Dean resorts to the tactics he uses to make himself feel better; a night at the Roadhouse, a plate of Ellen’s chilli-fries, more beer than is sensible, and a room full of happy hearty people to flirt with – or do more than flirt with if the mood is right. Sam, however, doesn’t seem to find this plan of action particularly appealing. All the lovely ladies throwing Sam their best come-hither looks are going to have to find a different object for their affections, or go home disappointed.

“Dude, you have to snap out of it,” Dean says at last. He watches an attractive blonde walk away, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. It’s the third offer of a ‘drink’ that Sam has turned down in the last hour. She slowly wiggles her way back to her friends. Dean feels rather sorry for her. He feels rather sorry for himself too, since his sex life seems to be another casualty of the Bake-Off, going through a phase of epically failing to hook-up. Not that he cares particularly, or that it’s high on his list of priorities, but it is strange. He’d always found it so easy before.

When Dean did find someone he could be bothered to get his flirt on for, he would either lose interest after a couple of drinks (it was amazing how little alcohol it took to make some people loud and abrasive and handsy), or they’d laugh when he talked about the Bake-Off (some accused him of making it up, or thought it was a joke, because baking was for old ladies and little kids, wasn’t it?).  

“Dean, I’m fine,” Sam protests nudging Dean away with a big bony elbow when he tries to drape an arm over Sam’s shoulders.

“You’re not fine, you haven’t been fine for months,” Dean says, “you’re moping, and it doesn’t look good on a guy your age.”  

Sam gives him a wounded look. “Sorry, Dean, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, it’s just...”

“Just what, Sam?”

“It’s just that I really liked Sarah. More than any other girl I’ve dated and I honestly thought she felt the same.”

“She did,” Dean tries and fails to reassure him. “God only knows why,” he tries for a joke instead. “But she did like you, Sam. Any idiot could see that. If it wasn’t for Novak sending her away and the ugly sisters whispering God-knows-what in her ear, I’m sure she’d still be around.”

He never had told Sam about Novak’s email or his confession of the part he played in sending Sarah away. Instead Dean tried to hint at the truth; passing it off as a mixture of show gossip and personal speculation. It had failed miserably so far going by the sad-sack look of Sam’s face. He didn’t like keeping things from him but Dean sure as hell didn’t want Sam asking questions about why Novak would tell Dean about it in the first place.

And Dean had exactly zero intention of telling anyone about the hands in places and mouth-touching incident. It was between him and Castiel and it was going to stay that way, permanently. Dean had been relieved to find that he and Novak were on the same page there. The two rounds of the Bake-Off since the _incident_ had been an exercise in mutual indifference. Not a look or a word passed between them and that was exactly the way Dean wanted it.

“We don’t know that’s what happened. Even if it was, she’s not a slave, she doesn’t have to do everything Castiel says. That doesn’t explain why she hasn’t been in touch. We’re not living in the dark ages. She could call, text, email, God she could write me a damn letter if she had to; I gave her my address. Or she could contact me through you, couldn’t she? She could get in touch with you though Castiel?

“What do you mean?” Dean asks. He voice is sharp and that’s just great (not suspicious at all). He laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound as false to Sam as it does to his own ears. “I mean why do you think Castiel would know how to get in touch with me? We’re not exactly friendly.” _But you do know what his tongue feels like,_ Dean’s idiot brain helpfully supplies. Lovely, now there’s heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Sam doesn’t notice, or brushes it off as Dean being weird. “Well you do see each other during the show don’t you? Not to mention Pam has everyone’s contact details. Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is, she could get in touch if she wanted to and she hasn’t, so that’s that.

“Man, you have thought about this way too much. She could honestly be really busy.”

“I know you’re trying to help, Dean, but oftentimes the simplest explanation is the right one; she just didn’t like me as much as I thought. I don’t blame her for it. She was always too good for me.”

“That’s rubbish. Anyone who willingly chooses to spend time with Castiel Novak can’t be completely right in the head can they?” Dean taps at his temple with two fingers to emphasise the point. The joke falls flat.

“I’ll get over it. I just need a bit of time.” Sam sounds resigned. He slumps in his seat and begins to peel strips from the label on his bottle.

Time to try a different tactic.

“So,” Dean starts. He tries to keep his voice casual, like this isn’t an idea he’s been obsessing over for the last few weeks. “I’ve been thinking about what I might do after the competition.”

Sam smiles but it’s a frail thing that looks as if it’s in danger of dying at any moment. “I thought you were going to go in with Bobby and Ellen to expand the shop.”

“That was the plan, yeah,” he agrees, “and I might still do that, though they don’t really need me, they can easily get someone else in to manage the place. But if I win, and that is a massive IF, I was thinking it might be nice to see if I can do something with all this crap I’ve been learning. I mean, the show’s been shit at times but, you know...” Embarrassment creeps up his throat and tries to strangle the words. He has to take a drink before he can get the rest out. Sam watches him carefully. “I’ve enjoyed it you know. I think maybe I can do it; Missouri said she thought I could. I mean it’s pretty different to cars, but, I don’t know, it just...”

“You want to bake?” Sam interrupts. “You want to bake for a living? Like open a store or something?” His reaction is bigger and brighter than Dean could have hoped for.

“Something like that, maybe, yeah.” He shrugs.

“Dean, that’s fantastic,” Sam beams. He slaps Dean on the back with so much gusto he nearly spills his drink.

“What’s fantastic?” asks Ellen as she happens by. She swipes ineffectually at the sticky surface of the bar, so it looks like she’s doing something while the other staff bustle about in the Friday night rush.

Sam grins; it’s a good thing to see. “Dean’s going to open a bakery when the show’s through,” he says before Dean has time to open his mouth.

She raises her eyebrows. “Different, but it makes sense,” she nods, “and it would be a crime to let all that God-given talent go to waste.”

Dean holds his hands up. “It’s only an idea and only if I win, which isn’t likely. I won’t use the garage money for it. You and Bobby can still do that on your own.”

She leans over the bar and cuffs him gently round the back of the head. “That’s nonsense, boy. It’s your money. We gave it to you because we wanted to and we could. How you spend it is completely up to you,” she says, while Dean rubs at the smarting patch on the back of his head.

“I’ll pay you back you know, one day, every last penny.”

She sighs and fixes him with a serious stare. “No you won’t. We’re only doing what your folks aren’t here to do for you. We’re family and it’s a gift. I’m only sorry we couldn’t do more for you boys earlier but you know, your father, God rest his soul, was a proud man and wouldn’t take help from anyone.”

Her eyes look watery; she flaps the towel across the bar a few times as if the agitated movement will hide the emotion, or chase it away. She’s the closest thing they had to a mother while they were growing up and Dean feels a warm burst of affection in his chest.

“Thanks, Ellen,” is all he can say. He hopes she knows how much her support means to him.

She waves it away as if it’s nothing. “So what’s happening in California, Sam? How do you like living among the rich and famous.”

“I think Dean’s the one spending time with the rich and famous these days,” Sam chuckles. Dean darts him a quick look but Sam just smiles, unaware that the comment has hit close to home. “But I am settling in at work. A few of the people there have taken pity on me, as the new guy in town, and keep threatening to drag me out with them next week.”

“Hey, Sam, if you see any movie stars, make sure to send pictures won’t you,” Dean smirks. “Pictures or it never happened.”

Sam ignores him and changes the subject. “How’s the prep for the next show going, Dean? Decided what you’re going to make yet?”

“I’m leaning towards a sourdough first and then cheese and chilli bagels for the showstopper.”

“Sounds good,” Sam says.

“If you need any taste-testers, you know the staff and patrons at the Roadhouse are always happy to oblige,” Ellen adds with a wink.

“Might be a tough one this time,” Dean admits. “Never made much bread before and it turns out it’s quite a skill. There’s all this science-y stuff to do with gluten and yeast and crap like that.”

Sam scoffs, “you want to open a bakery and think bread making is crap.”

He shoves Sam, hard, so that he nearly falls off his stool. It doesn’t stop him laughing like the annoying giant little brother he is. “I don’t have to make bread, and anyway, I didn’t say I couldn’t, I just need practice. The point is, Crowley’s an expert. He’s called the King of Bread or something in England, and get this, he supplies bread to the actual Queen, the one with the throne and the crown and all that shit. Can you imagine what he’s going to be like if I get it wrong?” Crowley’s big round face will be the smuggest thing ever seen by man or beast – he’s been dying to get Dean out of the competition for months.

“How much time have you got left?” Sam asks.

“Just under two weeks.”

“It’s been a while since the last round.”

“Yeah, Pam said there was a problem with the location they booked, so it was pushed back while they found somewhere new. She emailed this morning to say they’ve finally got somewhere lined up. Some owner of a private house in New Hampshire stepped in. Sounds like it might be one of Pam’s media buddies. She was way over the top about how the guy had totally saved her ass.”

“I wish I could travel down with you,” Sam says, some of the gloom sneaking back into his voice. “Help you get the lay of the land a bit, before the shoot, but I’ve got too much on at work right now.”

“It’s cool, Sam. I’ll be fine.”

“You know,” Ellen interrupts. There’s a smile playing around the corner of her mouth and a mischievous sparkle in her eye. She’s up to something. She leans an elbow on the bar and drops her chin down into the cradle of her hand. “I could do with a break from this place and all the ugly mugs on show in here. Why don’t Bobby and me come with you, Dean? We’re as near as kin, next to Sam here, anyways.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean says.

“Did I say anything about need to? I spent a few years around those parts as a kid, and I wouldn’t mind getting a look at some of my old haunts, might help put a bit of life back into my old bones.”

“You really want to do that?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, why not, it’ll be fun. We can go down a couple days early, check out the location so you’re not all disorientated when you arrive. We need to get you that prize so you can start up your store don’t we. Sounds like a plan to me; does it sound good to you?”

“Sure, let’s do it then,” Dean shrugs and she reaches out in a fond gesture to pat him on the cheek. Her hand is warm and for a moment his eyes shut and he feels the comfort of it. He really does love Ellen. He would tell her but he’s an asshole when it comes to that sort of stuff. Plus he figures she probably already knows.

“Good man.” She says quietly, before disappearing into the back room, the door set back beyond the reaches of the warm-beer-scented bar. No doubt she’ll call Bobby right away to set up the details of their impromptu vacation.

As soon as she’s out of hearing range, Sam jabs Dean in the ribs to get his attention. Lifting his chin in the same direction Ellen went he says, “So which of you will be sharing a room with Bobby?”

Sam grins impishly but Dean is wide-eyed and scandalised. He looks towards the back room then back to Sam before speaking. “What the hell are you going on about, Sam? Bobby and Ellen? No fucking way.” He could see the vague shape of Ellen moving about behind the small smoked-glass window set at head height in the centre of the door. It’s blurry and indistinct but it looks like she’s laughing, the phone squeezed between her head and shoulder, while she busies her hands with other things. Nah, it couldn’t be.

“Well you see, Dean,” Sam goes on. He wears a completely fake expression of sincerity. “When two people love each other very much...”

“Gross, dude,” Dean complains. “Don’t you dare put that image in my head.” Shit, too late.

Sam laughs. “Never mind, I think you get the picture.” He goes serious again a moment later. “Don’t tell me you never noticed those two circling each other? It’s been going on for years.”

“But...” Dean tries to think of an argument, any argument, to set against Sam’s suggestion. He can’t find one.

“But nothing, Dean,” Sam says. “They spend almost all their spare time together.”

“At the bar,” Dean protests weakly. “Drinking and talking with other people around.”

“They like the same things, like doing the same things.”

“But...”

“They’re about the same age.”

“But...”

“And they’re both single.” He says it like it’s the most obvious and logical thing in the world. Dean’s mind is still flailing with the sudden influx of new information. It flips everything he thought he knew about the two of them on its head. He doesn’t like it. “We should be happy for them,” Sam finishes with a sad smile, the pain of his own disappointment lingering like a new scar, slow to fade.  

“But they can’t. I mean Bobby’s like a father to us and Ellen she’s... well she’s like our adopted mom or something. Plus they’ve known each other forever.”

Sam looks at him like Dean might be a little slow. “Dean, have a think about what you just said.”

He thinks back over it, and “Oh,” Dean says in a quiet voice. It might take some time to get his head round the change, but yeah, it does kind of make sense when you look at it from a different point of view.

“Glad we’ve got that sorted out.” Sam slaps him on the knee. Dean turns to stare daggers at him still reeling from the shock. “So, where is this place you’re all trekking across six states to go look at?” Sam asks, taking pity on his poor bemused big brother by changing the subject.

“I wrote it down somewhere.” Dean gets out his wallet and fumbles his way through it to find the scrap of paper with the new location on it. “Pam was seriously gushing about this place, said we’re really lucky to get in there at all. Apparently it’s really old and still in private hands; not a hotel or a tourist trap or anything like the other places we’ve been to.”

“Sounds interesting,” says the history nerd. Dean just rolls his eyes.

His brain cells are only firing on half-power after the whole Bobby and Ellen thing, so it takes a while to find the scrap of paper he’s looking for. He presents it to Sam with a loud “Ah-ha!” before he reads off the name. “It’s some place called Pemberley,” he says with a shrug.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

They arrive in New Hampshire on a Wednesday. The peak of summer is over and the land is on the brink of the slow slide into fall. The country around the small town where they’re staying for a couple of nights is still green and rich looking, picturesque, like something you’d find on a postcard. There are pictures in the lobby of the small guest house they’re staying in (booked by Ellen after declaring in no uncertain terms that she was not “Staying in one of those roach-motels,” that Bobby had suggested) that show the fall colours in full swing. Dean wishes they’d come here a bit later in the year so he could see them. Then he remembers he doesn’t care about that kind of thing and spends the next hour being grumpy and short tempered.

“Good thing we got you out of that kitchen when we did,” Bobby grumbles, putting Dean’s irritability down to tiredness alone. “Dread to think what a state you’d be in by Friday if we let you go on like that.”

“Yeah,” is all Dean can manage in response. Bobby is right though, as usual. Every spare minute has been spent in research and practise. Bread; it’s all about bread all the time, to the point where his dreams are filled with yeast and proving times and the pros and cons of speciality flours. At this point, Dean is at least seventy percent certain he’s going to end up in a padded cell muttering “The yeast hasn’t activated, the yeast hasn’t activated...” until the end of time.

“That friend of yours is sure we’re okay to go take a look at the big house today?” Bobby asks, as he picks a few leaflets from the ‘places of interest’ rack by the front door. “Don’t want to be getting under anyone’s feet... or getting charged with trespassing on private property for that matter.”

“Yeah its fine, Pam said there won’t be much of the set to see yet,” Dean says, still feeling a little surly about life, the universe, and everything. “The crew will be on site putting up the tent. Tomorrow they do the checks to make sure the equipment is working and isn’t going to blow up. The other competitors arrive in the evening and move into the on-site accommodation, and we film on Friday as usual.” Pam was almost ecstatic, for some reason, when Dean called to ask for the details of the location. For no reason that Dean could work out, she added a serious sounding “Good luck, Dean,” before ending the call by saying “Kisses” and hanging up.

To Dean’s relief (and for the sake of his sanity) they all had single rooms at the guest house so at least he didn’t have to worry about any awkwardness over sleeping arrangements. Since Sam had clued him in to the possibility of Bobby and Ellen being a thing, it had become glaringly obvious. Dean cringed at every hint of romance between them. He suspected they themselves didn’t realise what was going on; which was simultaneously funny and kind of sad. Either way, so long as they kept it between themselves, it was fine by him.

They decided to visit the location as soon as possible since Dean was getting antsy in the twee little town they were staying in (he was sure all the white wash and neatly trimmed verges were giving him a rash). As they drove, even Dean had to admit the surrounding country was beautiful. He might not like these well-to-do types, couldn’t see them as anything other than thieves who stole money out of the pockets of ordinary working people, but they certainly knew how to put on a show – and the house and park at Pemberley were a show of wealth like nothing he’d ever seen.

“It’s a fucking castle.” Dean can’t help but stare as he parks the impala between vans that belong to the Bake-Off crew.

Bobby rolls his eyes and huffs, “Nah, castles have turrets,” he turns to Ellen, “Do you see any turrets? Or maybe a fair maiden in need of rescue?”

“Don’t look at me, Bobby Singer, there ain’t been any maidens here in longer than I care to remember,” she jokes as she gets out of the car. And that is so not something Dean ever wants to know about. Thankfully it stops there. She whistles appreciatively, “My goodness, that is quite a place isn’t it?”   

It was probably not much bigger than Rosings in reality but the pale brick, and a little complex of smaller buildings to one side, made it look much larger. It was prettier than Rosings too; not that Dean had ever thought of a building as pretty but apparently there was a first time for everything. Where the former was stern and seemed to frown at its surroundings, casting shadows over the grounds like it was telling nature “You belong to me,” this house fitted in like it had been standing there forever while the world grew up around it.

Dean shook his head hoping to clear the thoughts rattling around up there. Jesus, what was wrong with him today? It was a nice house with some nice grounds, nothing to be getting all poetic about. He was here to check out the location, to prepare for Friday’s bake, not go into raptures about the damn place.

A loud crash was enough to draw his attention. It came from the direction of the marquee which stood out like a growth, a man-made tumour, on the lush green lawn. The crew in their red coats called to each other, one of them coming out cradling his hand and cursing, while others piled in to rectify whatever had gone wrong. His presence hasn’t gone unnoticed and once the emergency is over one of them waves Dean over, giving permission to go closer.

“You want to come take a look at the tent, see where all the magic happens?” Dean asks.

Bobby and Ellen agree. It’s cute how excited they are by everything. Over the long weeks of sweat and stress he’s become inured to it but he plays along with their enthusiasm, pointing out anything of interest he can see. They follow him, stepping cautiously over the black cables that twist and snake in lines across close trimmed grass, running down the slow dip of the land below the house, connecting the tent to the ranks of noisy generators. It’s amazing how much power it takes to run all the refrigerators and ovens, and the lights-camera-action of the whole damned circus.

He shakes a few hands and exchanges some words with the crew. Some kind soul hands him a paper cup containing a nasty gritty concoction that just about passes for coffee. Ellen and Bobby leave him alone in favour of exploring the grounds. They check with Pam’s dishevelled assistant to make sure the owner would be okay with them wandering about, but he just laughs and looks at Dean like he was confused saying, “I think he’ll be pleased you’re so interested, to be honest,” before walking off shaking his head. 

With nothing else to do, Dean walks up to the house to take a look over the land. He stares out into the warm afternoon sun and watches the hazy green and gold of treetops swaying in the distance. He’s glad they came. It really is quite a place and it would be sad to miss it amid the heat, confusion, and commotion of the Bake-Off.

A slope runs down from the house to a lake. Its surface is mirror-flat and it reflects back the building in perfect detail. The land beyond the water climbs back up in a shallow incline that disappears under the branches of mature trees, fading into the dark of the woodland beyond. It’s too perfect to be natural. It looks like a drawing and he feels like stamping his footprints into the ground to make sure it’s real. Dean doesn’t approve of taming wild spaces in general. Thinks it’s better to let things stay as nature intended. But here, it works. It isn’t jarring. This isn’t tearing up the world to build a strip mall; it speaks of something old and elegant. Well what do you know? He likes it. The thought makes Dean chuckle into his coffee. Sam would certainly laugh too.

Dean’s mind empties as he watches the crew buzz about the marquee, drifting to a place of calm, warm in the golden haze of a late summer sun. It’s unreal. The whole thing is unreal; the show, this place, the people he’s met, everything that’s happened since Sam sent in that stupid application could be taken for a crazy fever-dream. Maybe he should pinch himself and see if he wakes up back in his comfortable old well-worn life. He doesn’t actually try of course, because it’s a stupid idea. Not because there might be a tiny part of him that would miss it and miss the changes the Bake-Off has forced on him. No, definitely not that.  

The regular crunch, crunch, crunch, of someone moving fast along the path draws Dean out of his weird head space. Thank God. He glances up, expecting to find one of the red coats scrambling at full pelt towards the marquee with some unidentifiable, but utterly essential object in hand. Nope, guess again.

An indrawn breath sticks in Dean’s throat. Fingers tighten around the flimsy cup in his hand until hot liquid trips from its distorted lip and trickles over his knuckles. He hardly notices the sting. He’s too busy trying, and failing, to work out why Castiel Novak is running towards him, shockingly shirtless and glistening with sweat.

Dean’s a split second ahead in processing the scene and it’s oddly captivating to watch the moment Novak realises he’s there. He skids to a stop, loose stones sliding away under his feet so that he stumbles, and only avoids a falling forward and onto his face by flailing a hand out to catch Dean’s arm. If he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes, Dean wouldn’t believe it was possible but there is a look of pure horror on Castiel’s face as he lifts his head. He looks at Dean’s face, then at his own hand where it’s wrapped around Dean’s bicep. Castiel jerks back, letting go as if he’s been electrocuted. It’s both fascinating and unsettling, like watching an accident in slow motion.

Castiel straightens and lifts his head, the expressions Dean had glimpsed falling away as quickly as they arrived. Dean can’t help but stare at the sight of him and the acres of tanned skin on display. Castiel stares now he’s regained some of his composure. He shakes his head and his mouth works like he’s trying to say something but can’t quite get it out in the words he wants. It’s a strange moment, like a mini Mexican standoff, where they both freeze and look at each other in silence.

There is a dark void where Dean’s upstairs brain used to be, so his downstairs one steps in to help as he tracks the progress of a stray drop of sweat. It rolls from Castiel’s chest to his stomach, and on down to where a dark line... Whoa there! What the fuck are you doing, Dean? Move your God damn eyes.

He snaps his eyes back to Castiel’s face. He’s relieved to find that one of them has managed to regain a basic ability to function. Castiel pulls out his earbuds, takes a breath, and plasters a polite smile on to his face.

“I didn’t expect to see you here so soon, Dean.” It’s a brave effort but the nonchalance is too studied to be real and his voice cracks on Dean’s name. It’s awkward as hell. He tries again. “I thought you would arrive tomorrow night with the others.”

“Eh, no,” he mumbles, then silently tells himself to get a grip (and to ignore the other brain that’s trying to tell him just what he should be getting a grip on). “I decided to come out a few days early. Done enough studying, you know,” he shrugs. Castiel nods like he does know, and that’s just weird. “What are you doing here? You must have important... things to be doing... somewhere?”

Castiel’s brows pull together in a quick confused frown, but he’s still sort of smiling so Dean isn’t too worried. “Dean, this is my house,” he says.

“Oh.” Jesus Christ, this is Castiel’s house. No wonder the guy acted like the world owed him something, when even the landscape he grew up in twisted itself into new shapes to suit his family’s tastes. “I didn’t know. Pam said...” What had Pam said? A lot about favours and exclusives and... What else..?  He wasn’t sure. Dean suddenly wished he was somewhere else. “I should probably go,” he says in a hurry.

He starts to turn away but there’s a hand stopping him. It’s hot and wet with sweat – pretty disgusting actually – on Dean’s bare forearm. Castiel catches Dean’s unhappy look and lets him go quickly before wiping his hand on the back of his shorts (doing absolutely nothing to help calm the flustered feeling wriggling in Dean’s insides).

Castiel frowns at the half collapsed paper cup in Dean’s hands. “No.” He says. It comes out too loud, too hasty. “I mean, no you don’t have to go, Dean. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” He sounds sincere, or as sincere as it’s possible for a robotic person to be. “With one condition,” now that sounds more like the Novak Dean knows and hates. He’s just grateful they’re back on familiar unpleasant ground. “Please let me make you some proper coffee,” he points to what’s left of the witches brew in Dean’s hand. “That smells truly revolting.”

Oh.

Dean nods, unable to think of any way to get out of the situation, though his instincts are telling him to run and hide. Castiel leads him away from the crew and around the corner to a small entrance at the side of the house. The show’s presence rolls back, felt only in distant mechanical sounds and voices raised in the occasional shout.

“So, you run then?” Dean asks when the silence becomes too much. They’re inside the house, in a narrow corridor, and his voice echoes back from the whitewashed brickwork. He feels like he’s just stepped onto a film set; one of those stuffy PBS shows with corsets and bonnets that Sam likes to watch.

“Clearly,” Castiel replies, the familiar note of annoyance creeping back into his tone. He stops, clears his throat, and starts again. “I mean to say, yes. I run regularly, every day, for a few years now.” Dean expects him to stop but he carries on. “I find it calming,” Castiel explains. “It’s relaxing and helps me to get away from everything for a while. Helps me focus on what needs to be done. And there are the health benefits of course.” It’s one of the longest speeches Dean has ever heard Novak make.

“Can’t imagine what sort of thing a guy born to all this would need to get away from.” He means it flippantly; a compliment if anything, but he doesn’t miss the shadow that darkens the blue of Castiel’s eyes before he looks away.

They arrive at the kitchen and Novak goes over to tinker with a big shiny machine that clicks and hisses as he turns the complicated looking handles and taps. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Dean to work out that the thing he’s looking at is some kind of super espresso machine. The sort you’d find at a coffee shop on the rich side of town.

“Can I take it that you like the park then?” Castiel asks without looking up. He stares at the coffee machine like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. There’s tension in the line of his shoulders and the tight muscles picked out across his back.

Why the fuck hasn’t the guy put a shirt on yet?

Dean fidgets uncomfortably. “Yeah, I suppose do.”

Castiel turns, and he’s smiling now. A real smile, not huge, but more than the minute upwards tilt he was using before – there’s teeth on show and everything. “So you don’t think it’s too grand, or soulless, then?”

“Well it is grand, and I don’t know what you do with all this space,” he considers looking around the room at the marble counters and bright chrome fittings. “It’s not really like anything I’ve ever seen before but then it wasn’t made for the likes of me was it? Still it’s kind of beautiful I suppose,” he admits before adding, “If you like old stuff.”

“But generally you approve of Pemberley then?” Castiel comes over and plucks the cold cup from Dean’s hands. Without a word he replaces it with a steaming mug of something that smells rich and earthy, almost chocolaty, as he breathes it in. Jesus it smells amazing.

“Sure, Cas,” he says, “who wouldn’t?” An accusing voice in the back of Dean’s head reminds him _you wouldn’t_ ; _you didn’t like any of the other places did you?_ He hushes it in favour of tasting the coffee. If he stands there sniffing it much longer, it’s going to start getting weird.

“Well I’m glad you like it.” Castiel leans back against the countertop and Dean is once again acutely conscious of the fact that he’s still shirtless. Knowing the guy is a stuck up A-hole doesn’t fit easily alongside knowing he has a freckle just above his nipple. It’s just wrong in so many ways. “You know I care little what anyone thinks in general,” Castiel goes on. “But your good opinion is difficult to come by and that makes it more worth having, I think. I’m glad that Pemberley has it, even if I don’t.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue against the accusation but there are no words waiting there to back him up.  Castiel is not wrong and Dean has no interest in lying about it out of politeness. Since finding out about Bela, Dean’s dislike of Castiel hasn’t had the same force behind it, but he still doesn’t like the guy. It’s going to take a whole lot more than a cup of magic coffee, and flashing some flesh, to change Dean’s mind.

“Please excuse me, Dean.” Castiel moves away as he speaks. “I’ll just be a few minutes; you can go back outside if you like.” He leaves the room without waiting for a reply and Dean is left standing in the kitchen, wondering what the fuck just happened, and feeling suspiciously like he’s done something wrong, though he can’t work out why.  

Dean finishes the coffee, leaves the empty mug on the counter for lack of a better option, and makes his way back outside to find Ellen and Bobby. Halfway down the corridor something pops into his head, an inconsequential detail, all things considered, but somehow it sticks and it bothers him. “Did I just call him Cas?” he asks. No one answers but the echoes throw the name back at him from every side. It’s a relief when he steps from the shadows and into the light.

“Where did you disappear off to?” Ellen calls out. Thank God. All Dean wants to do is leave the weirdness of that meeting behind.

Bobby squints at him from under his hat. “You alright, Dean, you’re looking a bit pasty?”

“Shall we go back to town,” is all Dean can think to say.

“Go back already? We’ve only been here an hour. I thought you wanted to hang around and get a feel for the place.” Concern colours Ellen’s voice. “I was wondering if we might be able to get a look inside the house.”

“No. That’s not going to happen.” Bad enough that Castiel found him there, Dean doesn’t want to make it worse. Ellen and Bobby exchange worried looks as Dean turns on the spot and starts to walk away.

“You’re not leaving yet are you?” And there Castiel is again. Appearing in front of Dean as if from nowhere (is he a wizard or just a creepy bastard?). At least this time he’s fully dressed. “Forgive me for not welcoming you properly before, as you know, I wasn’t expecting company. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?” he asks, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

For one second, Dean considers saying no but the excited look on Ellen’s face leaves him with no choice. He indulges in a sigh before he says “sure, why not.”

Everyone turns and looks at Dean. They’re all waiting for him. Shit, he’s really doing this isn’t he?

“This is Ellen and Bobby – they own the bar and the auto repair shop where I work when I’m not doing show stuff.” What will Novak make of that? Dean half expects some insult or look of disgust from Castiel but there’s nothing. “This is Castiel Novak, he owns the place,” he mumbles at last, waving a hand in Novak’s direction.

Ellen grins, reaches for Castiel’s hand and shakes it enthusiastically. To give the guy his dues he doesn’t wince and Ellen’s handshakes are serious business. “Of course it is. I’ve seen you on the news and in the papers.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” he replies. Ellen beams. He turns to Bobby who’s giving him one hell of a frown from under his cap. “Can I ask where you’re staying?”

“The Sunrise Inn at Lambton,” the words are gruff and bitten off almost before they’re out.

“Lambton, yes, I know it well. There’s a very good patisserie just behind the square. Have you been?” The last is addressed to Dean.

“No.”

“I could show you,” Castiel licks his lips and hesitates. “It will still be open and I know the owners. We can all go. Let me make amends for not greeting you properly before, Dean. Please,” he adds for Dean’s ears only, and he realises what it is Castiel is really trying to apologise for. Let him try. It won’t do any good.

“I think we should be apologising to you for invading your privacy,” Bobby is saying. “Ellen here was threatening to break into the house for a look around.” A thump on the arm is all he gets for his trouble.

“It’s fine,” Castiel replies pleasantly enough. “Actually I can offer you something better than a look around. Why don’t you come and stay in the house with me? I have no company with me at the moment and I really do have more than enough space.”

“No, we can’t. Really... If I’d known this was your house I would never...” Dean stumbles over his words.

“You’ll be joining the other contestants here tomorrow night, so an extra night won’t be any trouble. It’s not as if there’s a lot of privacy to be had once a film crew arrives on your doorstep.”

“No, I suppose not.” Dean looks to Bobby and Ellen who bob their heads in encouragement. Didn’t look like there was going to be any way to avoid it. “Okay then let’s do it.”

“Good, then its settled. I’ll speak to my housekeeper and meet you at the front of the house.  We can go to the patisserie and move your things here afterwards. I’ll have dinner ready around eight and I’d be happy if you could join me?” Castiel shakes their hands again before he heads back into the house. Dean keeps staring long after he disappears.

A sharp slap on the back of the head snaps him out of it. “Is this the proud Castiel Novak you’ve been complaining about all this time? What’s wrong with you, boy? He’s friendly not arrogant at all.”

“Go easy on the boy, Ellen,” mutters Bobby who trails along behind them as they walk the gravel path. Bright patches of flowers and leafy shrubs border the walkway. Bees drone lazily between the blooms, legs dangling, heavy with pollen, as the sun heads towards the west. Dean feels drowsy, his brain sluggish and thick with questions and with lingering doubts about what they’re doing. He feels like the world has tilted too far on its axis; like he’s sliding downhill and has no idea how, when, or where he’s going to come to a stop. He hopes it’s not messy when he does.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ellen. He wasn’t like this before...” he stops there. He doesn’t want to say too much or give away secrets that aren’t his own.

Ellen is quick-witted and sharp-eyed and she can smell deception from a hundred yards (to her daughter’s eternal disgust – that poor girl never got away with anything growing up). “Before what, Dean?” she asks.

“Before the break in filming,” he covers. It’s good enough for Bobby, he just grumbles about having to re-pack his stuff again and kicks his way across the gravel to the car.

Ellen is not so easily put off. She hums and gives him a strange calculating look. “Well I wonder what could have happened to make him change,” she says. “If he really was as bad as you made him sound.” Dean has no answer to give.

Whatever Castiel needed to sort out with the housekeeper didn’t take long. He was out in front of the house again almost as soon as they’d made it back to the impala. Castiel came over and ran his hand along the side of the hood. It made Dean twitch.  

“You have a lovely car, Dean,” Castiel said as he got closer. “But would it be more comfortable if we took one of mine?”

He shook his head. “Nah, we just came in the impala today because it was easier. Bobby drove his truck over. It’s still in town. He’ll drive it back here later and you can ride with me.”

“And you don’t mind? I’d understand if that made you uncomfortable.”

Dean held up a hand to stop him. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss the _incident_ earlier in the summer. “I won’t say forget it because I’m still pretty pissed at you. But you’re not that terrifying. I think I’ll get through it with my honour intact so long as everyone keeps their hands to themselves.”

The expression on Castiel’s face as he nods his agreement is impressively contrite and more than a little hilarious. Dean has an urge to snap a picture of it.

“Come on,” Dean says. “Let’s go if we’re going.” He opens the back door and half pushes Castiel into the backseat alongside Ellen. At least she will keep him busy on the drive back to town.

The patisserie is just as good as Castiel had promised. The chef is happy to show them around the kitchen and give them tips on the perfect choux bun and how get the right consistency of crème patissiere. From Dean’s (stomach’s) point of view the best thing is the samples. He doesn’t mind being led around as if he was the squire to Castiel’s knight so long as he keeps the amazing pastries coming. If Dean is forced to admit one thing it is that Castiel really knows his stuff when it comes to this French crap. While Dean knows his macaroons from his madeleines, and could whip up a basic gateau, he doesn’t have the patience or the inclination to fiddle around with petits fours, and choux swans, though he is happy enough to shove them in his mouth.

“These are good,” Castiel calls him over, points to an orderly row of mini choux buns on display, “Hazelnut praline.” He waves to the girl in a white apron behind the counter and in seconds they are handed a plate with two samples. Castiel offers them to Dean and he scoops one up with his fingers and puts it directly in his mouth. It’s good, sweet but not too sweet, and the pastry hasn’t gone soggy from the filling.

He doesn’t realise his eyes have closed, or that he’s humming his appreciation out loud, until he opens his eyes to find Castiel pale-faced and staring. Jesus, if his eyes got any bigger there’d be no space left for the rest of his face. Castiel’s pastry sits on his plate, forgotten. He doesn’t even blink. Dean looks away, clearing his throat, and by the time he looks back, Castiel is busy pulling the choux bun apart and examining the inside before tasting it in minuscule mouthfuls.

“You really know about this stuff, huh?” Dean says trying to ignore the way Castiel is licking his lips.

“Yes,” Castiel replies absently. “I’ve always been interested in food. When I was younger, I wanted to study at one of the culinary schools in Paris but the company always comes first and I...” He stops and frowns, then mutters something under his breath, too low for Dean to hear. “It doesn’t matter,” he says and flicks his hand in the air as if pushing away whatever dark memory had jumped out at him. And that’s the end of that. “Do you think your friends will be ready to go back now?” He asks. It’s casual, but there’s tension pulling at the corners of his eyes and Dean doesn’t know how to make it better. Or why he would want to.

“I’ll tell them we’re going.” Dean turns to leave the shop, thinks better of it and turns back and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “You sure you want us staying with you? I know you were trying to be nice for Ellen and all, but seriously, it’s fine if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t changed my mind, Dean,” he says without looking up. “I don’t make rash decisions generally, or say things just to be nice. I invited you because I wanted to, and I thought you and your friends might enjoy it too. There’s no more to it than that, Dean. You have my word.”

“Okay then, Cas. I’ll be outside.”

The bell over the door bounces a merry dance that signals Dean has left. Castiel releases the heavy breath he’s been holding since watching Dean moan and sigh around a mouthful of pastry. He’s never been so jealous of baked goods in his life. He feels guilty for it. Dean has made it clear he’s not interested in that way and Castiel made a promise that he would not raise the issue again. But the growing ache in his chest, the heat that swirls unchecked and out of control in the pit of his stomach, is surly a betrayal of that promise. The invitation is a challenge of sorts; to see if Castiel can overcome his feelings, convert this infatuation into something better and try for a friendship.

The girl behind the counter boxes up the Opera cake he’s chosen for dessert. It’s wrapped carefully in paper and the white box is tied with a smart red ribbon before she hands it over. He watches Dean as she rings up the bill on the register. Castiel can see him through the window as he throws his head back and laughs without reserve at something Bobby just said.

He feels a throb between his ribs. “I will defeat this,” Castiel swears quietly to himself. The girl looks at him strangely over the top of the glass display case as he mutters but she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t care if she hears or not. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and walks out to join them in the light of the warm evening sun.  

The move to Pemberley is easy and within the hour they are inside the house. Dean feels strange as they go through the imposing front door without ceremony; as though there should be more to it than a mundane change of location. This is Castiel’s house, his home, and Dean being offered (let alone accepting) his hospitality feels significant. After all the crap that’s happened, reaching this point of wary acceptance deserves more than a quick, “Leave your bags here. Juliette will take them to your rooms for you,” and permission (to Ellen’s delight) to explore the house and make themselves at home.

“I thought we could have dinner on the terrace since its still warm outside.” There is a formality in Castiel’s words that was missing at the patisserie, but it’s not unfriendly. Dean doesn’t think Bobby or Ellen has noticed the change. They don’t know Castiel as well as Dean does (and isn’t that just the weirdest fucking thing). “The crew should be gone soon so we won’t be disturbed,” he goes on, “I’ll show you the way now and then we can meet back there around eight.”

He leads them to the back of the house, through a network of adjoining rooms. It’s obvious that the place has been renovated numerous times over the years. Although some rooms retain a sense of the history of the place, many are more comfortable and homely looking, much more so than Dean would have imagined. This is no snap-shot of the past, it isn’t a museum or film set, it’s a home and it looks lived in and comfortable.

It also doesn’t feel as big as it looks from the outside, and they soon discover, it’s because the house is built around a courtyard. Ellen thinks it’s beautiful, Dean wonders what the point is, and Bobby rolls his eyes and mutters something about horses and “how d’ya think they get light to the rooms on this side of the house, idjit.” Dean shrugs his words off. Whatever the point, it’s being used as a garden now. There are potted plants dotted about and a table and chairs in the corner that’s still touched by the last of the day’s sunlight. It looks peaceful. Like a place removed from the troubles of the real world. Dean can easily imagine Castiel in this space with one of those coffees from his fancy machine beside him.

“We’re going to have a look around the kitchen gardens while it’s still light.” Ellen’s voice interrupts Dean’s daydream. She looks amused. “Earth to Dean,” she raps her knuckles lightly against the side of his head. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, garden, got it,” he says shaking himself loose from his thoughts.

“You coming or...?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, you two go, I’ll find you later.” Ellen smiles and pats him on the shoulder and they leave Dean standing there among the potted shrubs and cobblestones of the courtyard.

It’s nice to see Ellen look so happy, Bobby too in his own cantankerous way.  And who knew Ellen was so into gardens? Dean has no idea if this is a new interest or a long held one that never had reason to show itself before. Living above a bar that backs onto nothing but a parking lot wasn’t exactly a situation that lent itself to growing things (unless you counted the mold that sometimes bloomed across the walls of the beer cellar).

With time to spare, Dean returns to the house to continue exploring. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others, he hadn’t wanted to explain why it had stuck in his mind since he wasn’t really sure himself, but he really wanted to find the library. He hadn’t forgotten Meg’s enthusiastic description of it. At the time he’d assumed Meg’s bias was driving her to exaggeration, but now he’d seen Pemberley for himself, he wasn’t so sure. It isn’t hard to find.

“It’s like being at Hogwarts,” Dean whispers as he looks around.

It’s big, with high ceilings and a balcony that juts out from the wall above Dean’s head. It runs around three sides of the room and there are scrolls and patterns carved into heavy wooden railings. Here, maybe more than anywhere else he’s seen, the age of the house is in full view. The shelves are dark and a little crooked in places. A marble fireplace is set with logs, ready for the winter, and surrounded by a semi-circle of big comfortable chairs. He remembers Sarah describing it as cosy and he can see how it would be with the fire lit and the old fashioned table lamps switched on.

Most of the books are old. The kind that come in thick leather bindings with gold lettering pressed into the spine. The pages are yellowed and fragile as he turns them, being careful not to cause damage. The shades are at half-mast to shield the precious books from the worst of the summer sun. It’s completely still and comfortingly quiet, as if the room is holding its breath, waiting for something.

Tucked behind a bookcase at one end of the room, and positioned between two windows, is a baby grand piano. Dean lifts the fallboard, notes the slightly scratched surface and presses one of the keys a couple of times (because that’s what everyone does when they see an unattended piano – in fact he’s pretty sure there’s a law about it). The sound is full and clear. This instrument is used and loved by someone. Not Castiel, he thinks, somehow he doesn’t seem the type. Then again the guy’s been full of surprises today, so why not another?

He walks around it trailing his fingers along the cold edge of the wood. There are stacks of sheet music on the shelves nearby and on the floor, leaning drunkenly against them, is a tired looking acoustic guitar. Dean picks it up to feel the weight. It feels good in his hands. It’s been years since he played but his fingers itch to touch the strings, to find out if the memory of the songs he learned lay dormant in the shape of his hands, and the tips of his fingers.

He hooks the piano stool with his foot and drags it out. Clenches his jaw at the rough scraping noise it makes as it moves across the floorboards. He sits. Rests the guitar on his knee and plucks at the strings. It’s not as out of tune as it could be; he sets about twisting the tuning pegs until he’s satisfied. A smile reaches his lips as he brushes the edge of his thumb over the strings, bringing back memories of his teenage self, trying to copy the songs he played on an already out of date cassette deck, with fumbling unsure fingers.

He isn’t even sure what he’s going to play, if he can still play, until he starts. Dean’s fingers move and the music comes; though it’s halting and tentative to begin with, he grows more confident towards the end. He laughs quietly when he recognises the song; Dust in the Wind – not exactly cool but he doesn’t really care. It’s simple and he remembers how to play it and that’s enough for now. The last notes linger in the warm air, ebbing away slowly.

“You’re very good, Dean.” The voice comes out of nowhere.

“Fuck!” Dean scrabbles to hold onto the guitar as he jumps to his feet. Shock has his heart pounding in his chest. “Fuck, Cas. I didn’t know you were there.” Castiel is leaning casually against a doorframe that Dean could have sworn wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Shit, maybe this place really is Hogwarts.

“Apologies,” he says. A smile ghosts over the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t want to interrupt. Will you play again?” There’s a strange look in his eye, too shiny for the shadows of the doorway. He glances away and swallows before he looks back and meets Dean’s gaze.

“I’m not really comfortable playing in front of people,” Dean tells him. “Funny really, since I only started playing because I thought it would help me pick up chicks, you know, when I was a kid.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“It’s not very effective when no one knows about it,” he admits.

“I suppose not.”

Dean shrugs and goes to return the instrument to where he found it. “You were looking for me?” he asks when Castiel doesn’t move or volunteer any more information.

“Oh yes, I came to find you because dinner is ready. Ellen and Bobby are waiting.”

Dean looks at his watch and, shit, it’s after eight already. He grimaces. “I lost track of time.”

“It’s no problem. I found you easily enough.” Castiel moves to the side to let Dean through the door.

“Man, I didn’t even realise there was a door here.”

“It’s a secret door,” Castiel tells him.  Dean frowns and Castiel steps back into the library indicating that Dean should follow. When he closes the door it disappears to blend in with the book shelves around it.

Dean runs his fingers over the backs of the fake books and laughs. “Well at least I’m not going crazy.” It’s pretty cool actually; weird, but cool.

“Please feel free to use the instruments whenever you like while you’re here. It’s nice to have someone musical in the house while my sister’s away.”

“Yeah thanks, maybe,” Dean says. He doesn’t mean it and if the disappointed turn of Castiel’s mouth is anything to go by, the other man knows it too.

Dean follows Castiel into the evening air, where Bobby and Ellen are waiting. It’s still warm, though the sun has long since slipped below the tree-line on the horizon, and the air is sweetly scented with the flowers that fill the borders around the stone terrace.

The meal is surprisingly simple; steak cooked to perfection with chilli butter and a heap of fries (and there’s salad for anyone not named Dean). He whistles appreciatively when he sees it.

“Wouldn’t have thought this was your style,” Dean says as he sits. Castiel takes the seat beside him as Bobby and Ellen are already filling the ones opposite. Dean shifts as far to the side as he can manage without making it obvious, hyperaware of how close their knees are beneath the wooden table.

“And what do you think would be my style?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know. You said you liked all that French stuff, so something like that I suppose – quail eggs and foie gras,” Dean laughs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ellen shake her head at him.

The line between Castiel’s eyebrows makes him look puzzled. “I like to keep good quality food in my kitchen, but not necessarily complicated or particularly expensive ones, and I never eat foie gras for ethical reasons.”

Dean shrugs. He has nothing to say about any of that.

The steak is divine and for a while there isn’t much to be heard from the party apart from the smacking of lips and the occasional satisfied hum.

“Man,” Dean says rocking back on his chair, trailing one hand over his full stomach, sleepy, satisfied, and comfortable. “I don’t know what your chef did but that has to be some of the best steak I’ve ever eaten. If the rest of their food’s as good, I’ll be proposing marriage before the end of the week.”

There’s a choking noise and Bobby splutters. He pulls a bottle of beer away from his mouth as Ellen slaps him on the back. For a moment Dean thinks there’s something wrong, then he realises the old guy is laughing. Ellen too is looking at him with her teeth buried in her bottom lip trying to hold back a grin.

“I’m missing something?” Dean asks suspiciously. He turns to Castiel for help but he’s looking studiously at the plate in front of him, as if some meat juices and a couple of abandoned fries are the most fascinating thing in the world.

Ellen takes pity on him. “While we were waiting for you, Dean, Castiel was telling us how he likes to cook when he’s at home.”

Aww crap! “Oh right,” Dean says, “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t know,” Castiel says awkwardly and looks abashed for a moment. “And you’re right, I do have a chef on staff, but I decided to cook tonight.”

“And it was really good, Castiel, thank you,” Ellen says.

“You’re very welcome,” Castiel says and smiles at her. “It’s been nice to have a distraction from practising for the show.”

They all head to their beds early that night. It’s been a long and occasionally traumatic day as far as Dean’s concerned. The maid, Juliette, is called to show Bobby and Ellen to their rooms while Castiel takes it upon himself to show Dean the way – and that absolutely does not make Dean’s stomach feel fluttery and weird.

“I plan to spend most of tomorrow morning in the kitchens getting in some last minute practice,” Castiel tells Dean as they climb the stairs to the first floor. “I know you came away to escape the last minute panic, but you’re welcome to join me, Dean, if you want to. There’s plenty of room.”

Dean declines, but thanks him for the offer, and it comes as something of a surprise when Dean realises he means it. Perhaps for the first time since they met, Dean isn’t saying it out of politeness or to keep the peace.

“This is your room,” Castiel says, opening the door and sliding his hand along the wall inside to switch on the light. He lets Dean go past but makes no move to step over the threshold.

“It’s very nice,” Dean says, looking around.

“You can call down to the maid if you need anything, and just come downstairs when you want breakfast. There’s always someone around to help you find what you want.”

Dean nods, “Okay,” and turns back to the door, stepping forward, intending to close it. Instead he somehow ends up stepping into Castiel’s personal space. Dean’s stomach lurches as he realises what he’s done. Castiel’s eyes are wide and he looks completely terrified for a moment, or maybe like he’s about to throw up, before he jumps backwards to get away. Dean’s hand is raised in the space between them, though he has no idea why or what he was intending to do with it. Before Dean has time to work it out, Castiel grasps it and gives a rough handshake.

“Sleep well, Dean,” Castiel says so quickly it comes out garbled. Then he turns and is gone, disappearing into the warren of corridors.

Dean shuts the door and sits on the corner of the bed. Today has been an extremely strange day, full of unexpected twists and turns, and even an accidental marriage proposal. He gets the feeling tomorrow might be stranger still.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

Dean wakes early and opens his eyes to a strange room, and the feel of an unknown bed under his back (unknown but Goddamn comfortable). He yawns, rubs his fists into his eyes to clear the sleep from them, and blinks lazily in the bright morning light. Pemberley; Castiel’s home and Jesus what a home it is.

The world is still quiet outside. The absence of cursing in the distance implies the crew haven’t arrived yet. Only the natural sounds of the countryside break the silence that hangs over the world like a veil, waiting to be rolled back to reveal the day.

He makes his way downstairs in search of the kitchen and (fingers crossed) caffeine. He has a vague idea of where it is in relation to his room. He’s always had a good sense of direction, and only takes a few wrong turns along the way. As he gets closer, the smell of food draws him in like a blood-hound and he sighs with relief when he steps into the whitewashed room where the giant coffee machine lives. Now he just needs to figure out how to work it. He looks at the great chrome thing; it’s red and green lights blinking at him like eyes in the face of a monster. It hisses and he backs away, slowly, holding up his hands. Maybe there’s a kettle around here somewhere instead.

“It won’t bite.”

The surprised squeak Dean lets out is manly and deep (honest). He spins around to find Castiel holding a tray of steaming rolls in gloved hands. Dean will never know how he didn’t manage to put two and two together and realise it was fresh baked bread he could smell. For now Dean puts it down to being disoriented in a strange house. At least Castiel is wearing clothes, unlike the last time they were in this room together (and wow, his brain made that sound so much dirtier than he meant). It turns out his body is also a lying liar who lies because little Dean starts to take way more of an interest in the idea of a naked Castiel than Dean is entirely comfortable with. Thank God there’s a freestanding unit between them.

“I don’t think I’ll risk it,” Dean says, getting back to the issue of the coffee machine. “I’d rather not be responsible for burning down a house that’s been here for five hundred years.”

Castiel huffs an amused noise. “Sorry to disappoint but Pemberley is only two hundred years old, give or take a decade or two.” He shrugs. “Though there was smaller house here before that. I think it burnt down...”

“Did they have one of these things?” Dean says, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder towards the hissing machine.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. He tilts his head to the side like he’s seriously considering the possibility. “Maybe?” His lips quirk into a smile but it’s a fleeting thing. “I’ll make you a coffee, just give me a moment.” He fishes around in a drawer and comes out with a wire rack which he slides the rolls onto. One of them escapes and somehow it ends up on its side and rolling over the counter towards Dean. He snags it and juggles it from hand to hand trying not to burn his fingerprints off.

“Smells good,” Dean says as he lifts it to his nose and takes a deep breath. His stomach growls with jealousy.

“Olive and onion,” Castiel says. Then he points to a rack of perfect golden brown puffs covered in flaked toasted almonds, cooling over by a window, “And almond pastries.”

“They look great and all but I don’t think they’ll be allowed in the bread round,” Dean teases.

Castiel hands one over. It smells fucking divine, and the underside is crisp and baked through. Dean has trouble not shoving the whole thing into his mouth right away.

“The bread is for the signature bake.” More of the pastries are pushed towards Dean on a white plate. “These are for you,” he explains, “and your friends.”

“Wow,” Dean says, cocking a crooked grin at him. “I only came to get coffee, but this is a fantastic bonus.”

Castiel looks confused. “If you only wanted coffee why didn’t you call down for it? You didn’t need to come get it yourself.”

“It’s just coffee. No point in troubling anyone. Kitchens are all pretty much the same when you get down to it. It’s not hard to find what you need, even in ones that could fit my whole apartment inside with room to spare.” He’s gratified to see the furrow between Castiel’s brows smooth a fraction. “And I might have missed out on these if I hadn’t come down, so I call it a win.”

The espresso machine hisses spitefully as Castiel starts twiddling the dials and pressing switches.

Dean watches him in silence for a moment. There’s something very relaxing about the way he moves, confident, assured, and totally focussed on the task at hand. He’s also, Dean now notices, only wearing a t-shirt and some loose fitting sweat-pants. It’s weird to see him dressed so casually. It makes Dean’s head ache to try and reconcile his long-standing concept of the man known as Novak with the reality of Castiel standing in front of him. He feels a bit dizzy from it, as if he needs to leave the room, get some fresh air.

“Can you tell me where Bobby and Ellen’s rooms are? I should probably go wake them up or they might sleep all day. Your beds are amazing.”

“You really want to disturb them?”

“Sure, so if you can tell me where they are..?” Dean says slowly.

“Rooms..?” Castiel questions it like he doesn’t understand the concept.

“Got to be honest, I’m not sure why this is so confusing for you, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide and his mouth forms a little ‘o’ like he’s just figured something out – it’s the weirdest expression Dean’s ever seen him wear.

“Okay, now I’m starting to get worried, what’s going on?” Dean’s missing something and it’s starting to piss him off.

“I’m not exactly sure how to tell you this, Dean.”

“Best way’s the simplest. Just spit it out.”

“I think I might have made an incorrect assumption.”

“And?” Dean lifts his hands and makes circles with them, telling him to get on with the story.

“I thought Ellen and Bobby were a couple.”

“So?”

“So, we put them in the same room.”

Dean laughs. “I bet your maid got an earful for that one.”

Castiel looks uncomfortable. “No, Dean. They didn’t say a word.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Juliette, that’s the maid, she was complaining this morning that she didn’t get any sleep last night... because of the noise.”

“I don’t get...” Dean starts, but yes, yes he does get it and eww gross. “Oh,” is all he can bring himself to say.

“Her room’s directly above theirs you see,” Castiel says awkwardly then stops. “I’m sorry, Dean, I hope I haven’t caused any trouble. Are you ok, you look unwell, can I get you something?” 

“I’ll just have that coffee now, thanks.” A mug appears in front of him immediately. Dean sips at it, scalding his tongue on the first taste. At least it’s a distraction from the big NOPE doing a jig inside his brain.

Damn it, Sam is going to be so smug that he called it.

Dean picks up a warm almond covered square and takes a bite. It’s heavenly. Of course it is. The burst of buttery flaky layers over his tongue is to die for. To his relief, it’s distraction enough to drive away the nausea from the thing that may or may not be happening, that he isn’t going to think about again, for as long as he lives. Thank you very much.

“You’re right we don’t want to disturb... whatever young love has got going on up there,” Dean says as he licks crumbs from the corner of his mouth then swipes the back of his hand over his lips to remove the last of the grease. “We better let them find us when they’re ready.”

“If you want to practice, I can set you up with whatever you need, the larder is always well stocked,” Castiel offers. He’s leaning over the counter top opposite Dean, his hands cupped around a mug of his own. He reaches out to snag a pastry for himself, holds it gingerly with the tips of his fingers before taking a neat bite from the corner.

“I like to have a break the day before the bake,” he says. “I’m normally travelling anyway.” He shrugs but he’s not sure Castiel is even listening to him anymore. He’s too busy demolishing the pastry, pulling it apart to examine the inside in minute detail, before popping fragments in his mouth. “You know it tastes the same if you just eat it instead of inspecting it.”

Castiel blinks and looks up, coming back from wherever his thoughts had led him off to. “They’re good.” He says. His face is a blank.

“Yeah they’re good, they’re really good, haven’t you made them before?”

Castiel looks at the rest of them, sitting in a pile on the centre of the plate, as if they’ve somehow personally offended him. “Yes, but that’s exactly it. They’ve never been this good before.”

“Isn’t that the point of practicing?” If there’s a problem here, Dean fails to see it.

“Yes but...” Castiel looks up, runs a greasy fingered hand through the front of his hair, which leaves it stuck up and full of flaked pastry, and it absolutely is not cute as fuck, because Dean would never think that about Castiel. “...I don’t know why? Why now? Why today? What did I do differently?”

“Do you need to know that?”

“If I don’t know what made them better then I don’t know how to do it again.” He’s starts to look a little wild in the eyes; a twitch pulls and contracts the muscles just below on the right side. “I need to make them again.”

“Cas, wait,” Dean calls out but he’s talking to Castiel’s back as he bustles off to fetch God-only-knows-what. He returns a few minutes later with mixing bowls and unlabelled bags of... stuff. Shit. Dean could be wrong but he suspects he’s watching the Castiel Novak version of a freak out. While that’s a thought that would have given Dean quite a happy even a few days ago, it doesn’t seem right to sit back and watch it happen now, when he’s accepting the guy’s hospitality.

Fuck it.

He follows Castiel over to the other side of the room. “You don’t have to do this right now,” he says. Castiel ignores him. He’s so focussed on the task at hand, that it’s like watching the robotic Castiel from the early rounds of the Bake-Off. Though this time, as he moves quickly, efficiently, and seemingly oblivious to Dean trying to get his attention, he’s more like a remote controlled robot being moved by outside forces (evil ones). Dean doesn’t like it. “Castiel,” he says it quietly. Cautiously he places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, presses down and pulls back, until the other man is forced to turn. Castiel stills. He doesn’t look Dean in the eye until he stoops down to catch Castiel’s gaze. “Dude, we’re doing breads tomorrow. You can work this out another time.” Dean tightens his fingers and Castiel’s rather glazed eyes slide towards them, where they press into his flesh.

Castiel blinks and he’s back in the room; he half shuffles, half slides, along the edge of the counter away from Dean’s touch. “I... yes, you’re right.” Then he straightens his back, lifts his head in the air, and there’s the old Castiel we all know and... whatever. “Apologies, I was distracted.”

“It’s probably nerves, don’t worry about it.” It was fucking weird but Dean can play dumb as well as the next man. He’s had a lot of practise. “Shit happens. You can’t control everything.”

“No, you can’t control everything,” Castiel repeats under his breath. Dean doesn’t think he’s supposed to hear it so he lets it pass without comment.

“Shall I leave you to it then?” he offers.

“If you like, but I’m happy for you to stay.”

“Okay then,” Dean heads back to the stool by the counter where his now tepid cup of coffee sits. “I promise I won’t steal any of your recipes.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Castiel says absently. “You’d have a hard time anyway since we’ve already submitted the ingredients lists.” The corner of his mouth tips up and Dean can’t help but mirror it.

Weirdness over, Dean settles in to watch Castiel work. He is a man of simple pleasures, and with a fresh cup of coffee at his side, and the plate of so-good-they-made-Cas-freak-out pastries in front of him, Dean’s happy as Larry (assuming Larry was pretty damn happy). He’s seen Castiel cook before of course, many times now, but it’s different somehow seeing it here. Just like everything seems to be different about Castiel at Pemberley. Seriously, if Dean hadn’t just witnessed the quite spectacular return of robot Castiel first hand, he’d be in doubt that this was in fact the same guy. His movements are confident and controlled, not cold and clinical; his frown is one of concentration, not condemnation; his face is grave while he works but when he glances at Dean there’s no hostility buried in the blue – if there ever was, it’s been lost somewhere along the way.

“Why do you bake?” Dean asks as Castiel puts one batch of dough aside to warm and prove beneath a damp linen cloth. Dean expects him to sit down and he drags another stool out from under the counter in preparation. But Castiel shakes his head; holds up a finger in the universal sign of give me a minute. He disappears into the next room, then returns with yet another bowl of puffy, already risen, dough – Jesus, what time in the morning did he get up to do all this prep?

“Sorry, Dean, you were saying?”

“I was just wondering how come you got into all this,” Dean waves a hand in the vague direction of the ovens (unsurprisingly, there’s more than one). “It just seems like a strange thing for a guy like you to get into.”

“I could say the same about you, Dean.” He sprinkles a few drops of oil onto a clean section of the counter then pushes it about until it’s nothing more than a thin film, glistening in the light.

“I asked first,” he says with a smirk.

Castiel stops and looks up at him, eyes narrow for a split second, considering, before he returns to his task and upends the bowl. The soft dough flumps out onto the counter, moving and settling like it’s a living thing (which it kind of is what with the yeast and all). Castiel starts to knead, pushing the dough away across the oiled surface then pulling it back, in a quick graceful motion. Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, so he just watches the ebb and flow of Castiel’s hands as they work.

“I started like most people do.” The deep voice startles him out of the mildly hypnotic state he was in from watching the rhythm of the other man’s hands. “As a child I used to make cakes and cookies with the nanny, or the cook, or my mother when she had time. I think something about the order of it appealed to me; measure the ingredients, mix them together, bake them for the right amount of time, and you know what you’re going to get, more or less,” he adds glancing over at the plate of pastries, mostly stripped bare by now. “And what you get is something good, something that makes people happy, most of the time. It wasn’t a huge leap to branch out into other kinds of cooking as I got older.”

“You said you wanted to study? What stopped you?”

“Loyalty,” he says simply, “duty, responsibility.” There’s no heat or heaviness to the words, they’re spoken as fact.

Dean frowns. “I don’t get it? You’re rich; like stupid rich, you can do whatever you want.”

Castiel keeps his eyes lowered to his hands, “technically yes. But there are always other things to consider.” He balls his hands into fists and presses into the ball of increasingly smooth looking dough with his knuckles.

“Cas?” Dean asks. Sometimes he doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up and he’s worried this might be one of those times.

Castiel bows his head but starts to speak. “I love my family. I’m proud to be a Novak, and of all the work that’s been done over the years to make the corporation what it is today. But being part of the company was never a choice for me. It was expected, as it was for my father, and his father before him. I was brought up knowing that it would be my responsibility to protect the company, to protect Pemberley and protect the family. It was what my father wanted more than anything, and when he died, I promised I would do it. And that was that. That’s my life now.” The resignation in his voice was painful to hear.

“That kind of sucks,” Dean says. “But I get it.”

“You do? Sarah thinks I take too much responsibility for things I can’t control. That I didn’t have to do exactly what my father wanted me to do.”

Silence falls and Castiel stops the push and pull action of his hands and arms. He pinches off a tiny segment of dough and goes over to the window. He holds it up, pulls and stretches it until it’s so thin you can see the light through it. Dean’s heard of this technique before but never tried it himself. Castiel still doesn’t look at Dean.

“So is that why you’re doing the Bake-Off? To prove you can do something else if you had the chance?”

If Dean can trust his ears there’s a small laugh coming from where Castiel is standing, and he’s almost smiling when he turns around and finally meets Dean’s eyes. “Maybe it is,” he says. “But to be honest, I don’t really know why I agreed to do the Show. Sarah made a good pitch on the PR front but I don’t care about that. I don’t care what people think of me.”

“Clearly,” Dean says sarcastically. “Or you’d be nicer to people.” He grins to take the sting from it.”

“Touché,” Castiel replies before continuing. “Really I think Sarah just knew that I...”

“That you like baking,” Dean finishes for him.

“Yes,” he admits. “I think that’s probably what it comes down to in the end. As I said before, with this, you can decide what you’re putting in, and if you control as many other variables as you can, you know what you’ll get back out. At work, every decision I make has a dozen consequences, and it’s not possible to see all of them in advance. It’s like the butterfly effect; we take over a company, make a few changes, switch a supplier here or there, and somewhere out there a hundred people lose their jobs. You have to be hard and it’s exhausting. Doing the Bake-Off has given me time away from it and maybe a new perspective on some things.”

“I think you’ll win,” Dean says and it comes as a surprise even to him. “You really know your stuff.” He picks up the plate that was formerly filled with pastries and holds it up like evidence.

“I’m not sure about that. I don’t think Missouri likes me very much either.”

“But Crowley loves you.”

“Be that as it may, if I were a betting man, which I’m not, I’d put my money on you.”

And if Dean was the sort of person who blushes he would do it right then. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be an idiot, I can’t beat you.”

“Of course you can, because you care,” Castiel says as he looks away. “You care about the food you make and you care about winning. More than that, this comes naturally to you. It’s a talent. Don’t waste it.” He says it with such sincerity that Dean is speechless and it hangs in the air between them, something new and strange, as they watch each other silently.

There’s a shout in the distance and the growl of generators springing to life. The crew are on site. One of them walks by a window set high up on the wall and the flicker of a bright red coat draws Dean’s attention. By the time he looks back, Castiel is plaiting the dough into a complicated looking loaf.

“I’ll go see if Bobby and Ellen are about yet,” he says as he jumps off the stool. If Castiel makes any kind of response, Dean doesn’t hear it. He’s out the door and up the stairs in seconds flat.

So they had a moment, Dean thinks, what of it? And Castiel’s almost as human and messed up as the rest of them, so what? It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything that he’s had a good time since he arrived at Pemberley. It doesn’t mean anything that he’s sat and talked to someone about their personal shit and he kind of enjoyed it. No way was he ever telling Sam about this.

The day passes easily enough. A little time and a change of setting and any awkwardness from the moment with Castiel is pushed firmly to the back of Dean’s mind. He buries it under thoughts of the next day’s shoot, with no intention of digging it up again in the near future, and by the time Castiel finds him again later in the afternoon, the tension has disappeared.

There are only four other contestants, beside Dean and Castiel, left in the running at this stage of the competition. They arrive late in the evening. As they get out of the car, they goggle at Pemberley and it makes Dean smile to think what his own face must have looked like the day before. Castiel waits beside him, to welcome the new arrivals to his home and direct them to the guest rooms that form a little complex of buildings to the side of the main house. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that Castiel did not, and does not, suggest that he, or Bobby and Ellen, move into the annex of guest rooms.

It doesn’t escape Jody’s notice either.

She hugs him close and whispers in his ear. “Pam told us you were already here. You are going to tell me everything as soon as is humanly possible.” She fixes him with a sheriff-style stare as he looks at her innocently. Then she smiles and ruffles his hair affectionately as he tries to push her away. A moment later she’s gone with the others. Only then does he realise how suspicious it looks that he isn’t staying with the others and how Castiel is standing a little too close at his side.

Then again Dean doesn’t really care. He’s happily full from a really good dinner, and a little buzzed from what was probably too much alcohol. And maybe that’s not the most sensible thing he’s ever done considering he has to be up at ridiculous o’clock the next morning to bake bread – but he’ll blame Bobby and Ellen and their sickening snugly behaviour. Castiel had been throwing him panicked looks every few minutes and all Dean could think to do was to go fetch more beer. By the time the love-birds declare they’re going for an early night, Dean is too tipsy to care (much). Though he does thank great glorious God up above (that he doesn’t believe in) that Castiel put him in a different part of the house.

By the time they make it back to the terrace, Juliette is busy clearing the remains of dinner from the table, moving all the dishes to a huge wooden tray that she lifts with unexpected ease for so small a person.

“Vous avez besoin d’autre chose ce soir?” she says, looking at Castiel as she moves towards the house. Dean blinks. He noticed her cute accent before but this was the first time he’d heard her use her native tongue. He thinks it’s French but wouldn’t be surprised to find he’s wrong – he isn’t exactly a foreign language enthusiast; he has enough trouble with English.

“Non, je crois qu’on pourrait se débrouiller nous-mêmes,” Castiel replies without missing a beat. “Merci, Juliette. Bonne nuit.”

Dean doesn’t understand what they’re saying, but the quick fall of musical words from Castiel’s pink lips are close to mesmerising, and he catches himself wondering what other things that tongue might be able to do.

“Je pense que je n’aurais pas une bonne nuit à cause du couple heureux.” He might not know the words but she definitely sounds a little sour. The expression on her face confirms it.

“Vous pourriez toujours dormir dans une autre chambre,” Castiel replies.

Juliette seems pleased by whatever it is he just said, and smiles broadly. “Volontiers, merci”

“Dormez-bien,” Castiel calls after her as she disappears inside the house. He looks back at Dean and finds him wide-eyed and staring.

“French?” Dean asks and smiles when Castiel nods.

“She’s worried about being, uh... disturbed again tonight,” he explains awkwardly. “I told her to use another room.”

“That was pretty impressive, and dude, you have a French maid!” He laughs when Castiel looks baffled and changes the subject, offering Dean a nightcap, which he readily accepts. He’s already got a low level buzz going on, one more won’t hurt.

He looks out over the grounds while Castiel goes in search of whiskey. The day is drawing to a close and the woods are taking on their night time aspect, already dark as pitch beneath the close tucked branches. The broad lake reflects the flat navy blue of the sky. There’s no glimmer of diamonds in the depths yet. It’s still too early, too light, for the stars to show themselves.

“You never did tell me how you started baking,” Castiel walks past Dean. There’s a dull clunk as he places a heavy tumbler a few inches from Dean’s hand. He pours an ample helping of Scotland’s finest.

Castiel moves easily into Dean’s line of sight. He leans back against the low wall that separates the terrace from the gardens, the flowers and bushes set a little lower where the land dips down towards the dark water. He looks relaxed. More relaxed than Dean’s ever seen before. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s because he’s at home. Who knows? Whatever the cause, Castiel looks content and it suits him. He looks at Dean expectantly.

Oh yeah, Castiel asked him a question. “There’s not much to tell,” he dissembles, picks up the glass and takes a drink. He closes his eyes against the doubt in Castiel’s and savours the first burn of the fiery liquid.

How do you tell someone who lives in a castle, with a French maid, a grounds keeper, and a chauffeur, that you learned to cook because you had to keep your brother fed when your Dad disappeared for days at a time on a grief fuelled bender? That you baked your first pie because it was the only thing you remembered about your mother? That you carried on baking as a way to grasp those measly memories of warmth and comfort, and put them to use, as a shield against the hard reality of the world.

He opens his eyes to find Castiel waiting patiently for a reply. Dean wonders if he’ll wait silently all night if he refuses to speak. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if he did.

“My mom used to bake,” Dean says at last. He stares down into the glass in his hand, swirls the whiskey around and watches the viscous stuff cling and run in lines down the inside of the glass.

“And your mother, is she..?” Castiel asks carefully. It’s obvious he knows what’s coming.

“Dead,” the word is ice in his mouth and he spits it out quickly. “She died when Sam was a baby.”

“And you learned to honour her memory?”

Dean snorts. “Hardly, I learned because I had a little brother that needed feeding. My Dad always said it was up to me to look after Sam because he knew he couldn’t always do it.”

“But you were just a child,” Castiel says. There is sadness in his voice and Dean daren’t look up.

“No, not really. Pretty much stopped being that the day Mom died,” Dean laughs and it’s a bitter sound. “And being young comes in handy sometimes; kept my ass out of jail when I got caught stealing stuff to make Sam a birthday cake. So it wasn’t bad.” 

“Where was your father?” Castiel sounds pissed.

He has no right to be. The Prince of Pemberley has no idea what it’s like out there. What it’s like to have nothing but the ghosts of what’s been lost. Dean bristles. He turns away to rest his forearms on the table. He doesn’t even know why he’s still talking. He can’t seem to stop.

“Don’t judge, okay?” he tells Castiel. “He hit the bottle pretty hard after she died and never really recovered, from that or the drink. He did try and dry out a few times but it didn’t stick and it killed him in the end. He got in the car while he was out of his head one night and took the turn at the end of the road too fast. He went right into the side of a truck.” He claps his hands together to illustrate, just in case Castiel didn’t get it. “It was pretty messy.”

“I’m not judging, Dean,” Castiel says. “We all have our demons and I’ve seen how it can happen... my sister,” his voice breaks, and finally Dean lifts his head. He’s unsurprised to see that Castiel has moved closer, leaning on the table only a hands-width away. If Dean reached out he could touch him without any trouble. “My sister has been in and out of rehab these last few years. It’s an illness, and it’s a struggle to overcome it, even with all the resources we have at our disposal. So I do understand, Dean, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean pulls his lips up into an almost humourless smirk. “We’re orphans you know, Sammy and me, don’t suppose you want to adopt us? I think you’ve got enough room.”

Castiel’s smile is small and warm and it makes Dean’s heart twist in his chest. “By that reckoning, my sister and I are also orphans, Dean. Perhaps you should adopt us?”

Shit, Dean had forgotten about that. He feels a flutter of embarrassment. “Anyway, you were asking about the baking. I started because I had to look after Sam. But as I got older, I realised that I liked it. Making the stuff and eating it. Sam, Dad, Bobby, and Ellen, all enjoyed what I made, and it felt good to make them happy, so I just carried on. It’s a pretty simple story really. Never thought it would get me anywhere, but here we are.” He shrugs, the discontent easing now they’re on safer ground.

The night starts to cool and the stars have decided to join them at last. They are scattered in dots and swirls across the sky like someone cast a handful of salt on a dark cloth. Something small and dark flits across the sky, moving quickly and in crazy patterns, before disappearing up and over the house.

“Bats,” Castiel tells him. “We have a nest in one of the annex buildings. They’re catching insects.” He points out over the lake but it’s hard to see. “Come on,” Castiel says going back to the wall. He leans in close to Dean as they peer into the darkness together. He points again and this time Dean sees them. Two dark patches moving in twists and pirouettes on the wing. “They often hunt over the lake. The water attracts bugs.” 

Castiel’s breath is warm on his cheek. Dean feels a twinge of sadness as Castiel moves away and back to his original position, half-leaning half-sitting on the wall.

“I didn’t know you could speak French,” Dean says suddenly turning around to lean with him. They stare up at the house. Some of the windows are lit up but many more are in darkness. “You got any other hidden talents?”

“I speak Italian and a little Chinese,” Castiel says, very matter of fact. “I’ve always found languages easy to pick up,” Then adds, keeping his eyes very decidedly averted, “I’ve been told I have a natural talent, and a very clever tongue.”

Dean nearly spits out his drink. He turns to Castiel who’s still looking away. Even from this angle and in the dark, Dean can see he’s hiding a smile. “Cas, did you just make a joke?” Dean asks. It’s so ridiculous that Dean starts to laugh. Castiel’s watching him now. His teeth digging into his lip as if he’s unsure whether he did it right. And Dean can’t control himself; maybe it’s the booze, or the relief that something between them has finally snapped into place and maybe, just maybe they can be friends. “Fucking idiot,” Dean mutters good-naturedly. He reaches out and shoves Castiel on the shoulder. It’s playful, but with the edges of his judgement fuddled by alcohol it ends up being harder than Dean intended.

Castiel isn’t expecting it. There’s an expression of panic on his face and his mouth opens around an undignified cry of alarm as he sways backwards and hits the point of no return. It’s a sight Dean would pay good money to see again, as Castiel Novak, serious, stubborn, super-rich businessman, wheels his arms and reaches out frantically in a futile attempt to right himself. It doesn’t work, and he topples backwards over the wall, and lands in the flowerbeds below.

“Man, that was amazing,” Dean says between laughs. All he hears for a moment is rustling among the leaves and a disgruntled “Harrumph” which makes Dean laugh harder, until there are tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.

Castiel appears and climbs back onto the terrace with a sheepish look on his face. But, unless Dean’s eyes are playing tricks on him in the night time shadows, his eyes are shining, and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, turning the side of it upwards as he tilts his head and watches Dean watching him. There are leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, and a sprig of something-or-other tucked above his left ear.

“You going for the country maiden look, Cas?” Dean asks as he plucks the offending stem from Castiel’s messy hair. The dark strands are soft on his finger tips. It feels nice and he pushes on, shaking the garden debris loose as he goes and… Oh.

There’s an intake of breath and Dean isn’t sure whether it’s his. He’s not sure how he came to be here; standing almost chest-to-chest with Castiel, combing his fingers through his dark hair… and enjoying it. Castiel stares into his face, gaze dark and dropped in the direction of Dean’s mouth. A barely there frown line pulling his expression into one of confusion. Dean feels stupid, utterly stupid, as his pulse quickens and the rush of blood makes his skin hot and sensitive.

“We should go to bed,” are the next words out of Castiel’s mouth. He sounds drowsy and slow. All Dean can come up with is “uh” (eloquent as always). Castiel looks up. Blinks for the first time in well over a minute and then he’s moving away; just when Dean wants him to move closer. “I mean,” Castiel is saying quickly, his voice cracking slightly on the words, “It’s getting late and we’ve had a lot to drink, we should probably go to bed… each of us, separately, I didn’t mean… I wouldn’t… I know you don’t want…” He’s fucking adorable all flustered like this and if Dean’s upstairs brain is still hesitant, his downstairs one seems to be in full support as it starts to make its opinion known.

“Cas,” Dean says sharply, cutting off the babble of apology punctuated explanation. He falls silent the moment Dean’s hand touches his face. Dean lets his fingers trace the shapes; the curve beneath Castiel’s cheekbone, and the flutter of a pulse beneath in his throat. Dean slides his hand around to rest at the base of Castiel’s skull. “I’m okay with the first idea, if you are?”

The frown deepens and that isn’t what Dean wants to see. “I thought you didn’t want that?”

Dean’s face is a picture of innocence. “I don’t know what gave you that idea?” he says as he draws Castiel towards him, waiting, looking for any sign that he might want to pull away. He goes willingly.

“You know, you are a very confusing man, Dean Winchester.” Castiel’s sigh is resigned but he’s smiling and Dean wants to find out how it tastes.

“Cas,” he says closing the distance between them. “Shut the fuck up.”

They kiss for the second time, though it feels like the first, under a dark blue sky with only the bats wheeling and dancing over their heads, to witness it.

The journey to Castiel’s bedroom is a failed attempt at restraint, peppered with fumbled embraces in the dark. They try to shush each other and to stopper their laughs, in that extraordinarily loud way that only drunk people can manage. There isn’t even anyone else in the part of the house where Castiel’s rooms are, but they’re too busy to remember that right now.

The bed is big, soft, and soundless as Dean falls onto it pulling Castiel down with him. There’s no light other than what comes in through the window. Taking the time to switch on a lamp seems like a waste of the seconds they could spend melting, sweet and sugary, into each other’s mouths.

Castiel pulls away slightly and his eyes shine, like dark beads, all but colourless in the dark of the night-saturated room. His fingers are hot splashes on the sides of Dean’s face. He’s holding Dean close but grips lightly as if he’s afraid Dean will pull away and dissolve, or slip away like grains of sand in water. He won’t. Dean might be on the wrong side of tipsy but this, tonight, is the most sure he’s felt about anything in a long time.

“I don’t know if this is the right thing,” Castiel whispers, serious for a moment. “I was wrong before. I don’t want to make another mistake with you.”

“No mistake, Cas.” Dean runs his hand up Castiel’s side, sliding up until his fingers are on the back of Castiel’s neck. He pulls him down, twisting and rolling on the bed until he’s straddling Castiel’s hips and pushing down with his own to prove it. Dean smirks in triumph at the hissing intake of breath that whistles its way in past Castiel’s teeth. “I want this, capiche?”

Castiel smiles up at him lazily and it does things to Dean’s insides. “Yeah, I capiche,” he says.

“You know I wanted you that first night,” Dean confesses, dipping his head to press his mouth down on Castiel’s neck, sucking and nipping at the skin between words. “I thought you were fucking hot.”

There’s a huff of a laugh from somewhere above his head. “I suspected as much,” Castiel says, the slightly drunken drawl of the words in that deep, treacle dark voice of his makes Dean’s nether regions very happy. “You weren’t very subtle about it.”

Dean gives an extra hard nip to Castiel’s collar bone for his cheek. “Maybe not; but if you hadn’t acted like such an asshole it wouldn’t have taken us so long to get to the good stuff.”

“Is this the good stuff?”

“This is the best stuff.” He goes in for another kiss, already missing the taste of Castiel’s mouth, the tang of whiskey on his tongue.

But Castiel has more to say and he puts up a hand and pushes him back. “Dean, can I buy you dinner sometime?”

Another laugh bubbles up from Dean’s chest. He swipes a thumb over an exposed nipple and watches Castiel squirm. “Now, I’m not an expert in this area but traditionally I think the date comes before the sex.”

“I don’t do one-night stands, Dean.”

Strange, considering Dean’s history of almost nothing but one-night stands, it hadn’t even occurred to him that this might be one. It already felt like more, bigger and more important somehow. Castiel is looking at him expectantly. There’s a little tension in the air now that wasn’t there a minute ago and Dean realises that Castiel is serious. “How about tomorrow,” he says, “after the shoot? I think I could get away with staying an extra day.”

Castiel nods, his smile is slight but beatific all the same. “Then take off your fucking clothes,” he says seriously, and laughs at the shocked expression on Dean’s face. Who knew that hearing Castiel swear would be so fucking sexy? It shatters the odd mood in the room, leaves it in pieces on the floor that they can pick and examine later, in the clear light of day.

They’re half undressed already, so it doesn’t take much to wrest each other out of what clothing remains. The smiles and alcohol-edged laughter is stopped short for a few moments at the first slide of flesh-on-flesh. They breathe into each other’s mouths in shock, eyes open, and heart-beats racing in their chests. When he’s recovered enough, Dean reaches between them, to wrap his hand around them, both together, and starts to stroke in a slow building rhythm.

Castiel’s head tips back, pressed into the pillows. He buries his teeth in his lip to quiet himself and Dean feels jealous of it. Dean’s mouth tingles with the need to feel those lips again, hot and demanding, with the smallest hint of aggression (which is all kinds of fine as far as Dean is concerned).    

“I want your mouth,” Dean groans, lifting his head, ready to receive a kiss that doesn’t come. Because Castiel is gone and Dean’s staring at an empty pillow, and the dent where Castiel’s head used to be. His drunken brain is trailing by a few seconds and Dean’s still trying to make sense of it, when Castiel suddenly rolls him onto his back, pushing at him with urgent hands. Dean’s own hand, which is currently flailing uselessly in the area of his groin, is knocked away impatiently.

The next thing Dean’s brain registers is wet heat around his swollen dick, as Castiel swallows him down like a God-damn pro.

Dean nearly screams, “Jesus fucking Christ!” and has to shove his fist into his mouth. Bites on his knuckles while Castiel licks and sucks and fucking worships him with his amazing fucking mouth. His long fingers massage Dean’s balls and slide further back, now and then, to tease at the sensitive skin there.  

It’s good, astonishing in fact, but Dean’s fingers itch to touch Castiel and he’s too far away right now. Dean wants to lick and kiss all over that warm expanse of tanned skin. “I want to touch you, Cas. I want to taste you,” he tries to say. It comes out a little garbled and weird sounding. He’s not sure if Castiel understood the message.

He definitely got some kind of message though. Because a moment later Castiel does some quick contortions and Dean ends up with a face full of Castiel’s cock and balls. Not exactly what Dean meant but by God he can work with it (and since it requires way too much brain power to work out how Castiel managed to get them into that position without detaching his mouth from Dean’s extremely happy dick, he’s not going to worry about that).

There’s liquid beading at the head of Castiel’s red flushed cock and Dean is desperate to taste. So he does. He slips his lips over the head and swirls his tongue around it. Castiel groans around Dean in response and the vibration sends shockwaves spinning down towards Dean’s toes. This is not going to last long, he thinks, as he widens his mouth and lets Castiel push into it.

Dean hasn’t sixty-nined in years; always found it awkward and unsatisfying before, but this is a fucking revelation. If he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he would get down on his knees and thank the Lord that he and Castiel are practically the same height. Each trick either uses to pull a moan or gasp from the other, comes back to them, amplified through their partners mouth on their cock. It’s like a never ending feedback loop... of sex and stuff. When they come, it’s only a few seconds apart, both half-delirious from the heady combination of sex and alcohol, and to be quite honest a mild case of hypoxia.

They fall asleep between kisses, curled tight around each other, and somehow it feels like the most normal thing in the world.

In the room next door, Juliette grumbles into the pillow pressed over her head. “Pourquoi ça m’arrive toujours” she says. _Why does this keep happening to me?_ She’s all for amour, she’s French, she was brought up on it. Castiel’s been moping about the place, pining for months on end, and as soon as she lay eyes on Dean Winchester it all made sense. The man is beautiful in a way that men rarely are. He seems nice, down to earth, and always ready with a kind word of thanks. He could be just what Castiel needs to rub the edges off his sometimes prickly nature.

Juliette is happy for them, she really is. She just doesn’t want to hear it!

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

In the morning Dean wakes alone. There is a moment of panic and he gropes blindly, only semi-conscious, seeking Castiel among sheets that are empty and cold. He sits up, rudely awake in a second. It takes a while to process all the evidence of his senses, to sort the input into an order that his sleepy brain can understand.

Eventually he hears it, the sound of the shower in the bathroom, and he relaxes back into the bed; Castiel’s bed. He’s in Castiel’s bed. The idea is so ridiculous he can’t stop grinning. Castiel walks into the room wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. Dean can’t help but admire the view of all that tanned skin. There’s a faint bruise brushing over Castiel’s collarbone and the sight stirs the embers of arousal, still glowing at the base of Dean’s spine.

“You should have woken me,” he says, making a grab for the corner of the towel.

Given their history, this morning should have been awkward as hell, but it isn’t. It’s easy. It’s fun. And Castiel smiles warmly as he dodges Dean’s hands, twisting away and out of reach. Dean is left to grumble petulantly, stranded alone in the middle of the bed, while Castiel gets dressed.

“Why don’t you have a shower? I’ll go get breakfast,” Castiel says.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Cas, you’re not the boss of me.”

Castiel stops. His thin fingers halt their progress, even though his shirt is only half buttoned, and he looks at Dean speculatively. “No, I’m not,” he says, and there’s an evil glint in his eye. It’s new and it sends shivers tumbling down Dean’s spine. “Would you like me to be?”

Dean doesn’t have time to muster an answer before Castiel is crawling over him, trapping him, and pinning him to the bed. The sheet is barely pulled up to Dean’s waist and the feel of Castiel’s clothes against his skin, still sensitive from the bites and caresses of the night before, is a heady sensation. He allows Castiel to press him down, to tangle a hand in his hair and pull on it until his head is forced back, his mouth open and ready for the heated kiss that comes a moment later.

It’s one hell of a turn. Dean’s getting hard again and he can’t help but wonder if Castiel might just be the toppy dominating bastard he always thought he would be. He suddenly has a huge… desire… to find out. He wants to slide the covers out from between them, wrap his legs around Castiel’s waist, and keep him there. Maybe drag Castiel’s fly open and see what happens.

“Get back in bed,” he gasps into Castiel’s mouth, rolling his hips suggestively.

Instead of complying, Castiel moves away, leaving Dean with a stinging nip to his red flushed bottom lip – it does nothing to help the raging boner he’s currently sporting under the sheets.

“I can’t, Dean, tempting as that is. You really might want to consider having a shower. We’re about to spend twelve hours baking, in a tent, with our fellow competitors and a film crew, and while I’d be delighted if you wanted to show up reeking of sex, I’m not sure anyone else would be very happy about it.” He has a good point. The annoying asshole; shower it is.

Castiel stands up, straightening his clothes and Dean can see for himself that the guy isn’t as cool and unaffected as he seems. He looks at the tell-tale bulge in Castiel’s pants and wiggles his eyebrows pointedly. Castiel shakes his head but smiles that ghostly half-smile of his. It takes all of Dean’s control not to wrestle him to the ground and have his filthy way with him right then and there.

“I won’t be long.” Castiel walks out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Dean showers quickly despite the (oh my God) amazing water pressure, when he remembers he was supposed to call Sam the night before. It’s a standing arrangement that they speak the night before each round of the Bake-Off, so Sam can do all his girlie good luck wishes, and karma, and all that crap he likes so much.

He picks up his pants, from the rumpled pile of discarded clothes that forms an interesting feature in the middle of the floor, and digs his phone from the pocket. He’d had it on silent since dinner last night and when he looks at the battered screen of the shitty old thing, he finds a string of missed calls from Sam.

The first murmur of panic stirs and tightens his chest. It’s not like Sam to call and call unless there’s something wrong. He presses the dial button and it takes an agonisingly long time for the call to connect.

“Sam, what wrong?” there’s no time for hello’s if his brother is in trouble. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean. Well, not fine exactly, but I’m not hurt, so you need to calm down.” He nods, and then remembers Sam can’t actually see him.

“Okay, I’m calm,” he replies sounding anything but.

“Oh God, Dean, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking; everything’s been so confused since Sarah. I just wanted something good to happen. I just wanted to help.” The voice coming through the phone sounds unhinged and not at all like his cool and collected soon-to-be-lawyer brother.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what’s happened Sam.” It’s a demand not a request and it does the trick. Sam, used to following Dean’s directions since his earliest memory, takes a breath before he starts to talk.

“It’s the money, Dean. It’s gone.”

“What money, what are you talking about?”

“The money that we’ve been saving to pay the debts, for the shop, Dean, it’s gone and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay it back, every last cent. It’ll take a few years but I’ll do it. I swear.”

Dean goes cold. A dozen different scenarios run through his head simultaneously as he tried to grasp what could have gone wrong. Did their bank go under? Was it cyber crime? Does Sam have a secret gambling problem and had to pay off bad debts? What the fuck? “I don’t understand what you’re telling me, Sam. How can it be gone? It was everything we had.” Everything Dean had. Everything he’d saved from working two or more jobs. All the extra money Bobby and Ellen had added over the years and... Oh no. “The money from the show,” he asks. “Is that gone too?”

“Tell me you didn’t move it to the saver account,” Sam says hopefully.

“I did, yeah, a couple of weeks ago.”

“Shit,” is Sam’s emphatic reply. He doesn’t need to say any more. Dean gets the picture.

“How did it happen?” The label on the edge of the bath towel reads ‘100% Egyptian cotton’ and he fiddles with it as he waits. It’s really soft, nice. In the space before the explanation, Dean wonders, idly, if Castiel would mind if he took one home with him. It would be good to have a reminder, a memento, of what happened here.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam starts again, and Dean snaps at him to get on with it. There are butterflies in his stomach and not the good happy sort he got from having Castiel’s mouth wrapped around his dick. These are the evil kind; the ones with big metal wings that scrape and scour the lining of your stomach and need to be put down with a shot gun. “I would never have trusted her but you were friends. You told me how great she was, and she was so nice when I bumped into her a few weeks ago...”

“Bela.” Dean slumps forward and presses his hand over his face, shutting out the light for a few seconds. Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He hadn’t told Sam anything about what had happened with Bela and Castiel’s sister. He hadn’t thought it was his place to pass on information that was given to him in confidence.

“I bumped into her a few weeks ago. The night my colleagues made me go to some stupid expensive bar.”

“I remember. You didn’t mention it.”

“She said she was supposed to be working on some job in Arizona that Pam had set up for her, but she fell out with the director and left. She asked me not to say anything, in case it got back to Pam and upset her. It seemed really reasonable at the time.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it did. Can you get to the point, Sam. I’ve got a Bake-Off to start in less than an hour.”

“Sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“I heard you the first time. Just tell me what she did.”

“She told me about an investment. If I put in a few thousand dollars, I could get a massive return on it in a few months. God, it sounds so stupid now, but she was so convincing. She made it all sound so reasonable.”

“I can believe it.”

“The only thing I needed to do was sign a couple of things and do a bank transfer. She said she’d sort everything else out, and in a couple of months the account would have extra zeros on the balance. I don’t know how she did it, but when I looked yesterday, the account was empty. The bank thinks that I took the money and they’ve got paperwork to prove it. Seriously, Dean, I have no idea how she did it and now she’s gone.”

“It’s not your fault, Sam. You got played. Bela’s a con artist and I should have told you.”

“You knew? Why didn’t you say anything?” It wasn’t an accusation. There was concern in Sam’s voice, worry that she’d done something to Dean. 

“I couldn’t, I was asked to keep it to myself.”

“Castiel,” Sam says. Where was that perception when Bela was pulling the wool over his eyes? “She did something to Castiel and you found out about it. That’s why you’ve not been so hard on him these last few weeks.”

“Something like that. I’ll tell you more when I get back home.” The damage was already done. It won’t hurt to tell Sam the gory details now. “This isn’t your fault, Sam, do you hear me? This is Bela’s fault and we’ll sort it out, go to the police, call in your lawyer friends, whatever it takes.”

It’s possible that Dean is in shock by the time he hangs up the phone. He’d given Sam assurances that everything would be okay, but he doesn’t believe it himself. It’s just another shitty thing, in a long line of shitty things, and Dean can’t even pretend that he’s surprised by it. The bakery idea was always a pipe dream. Just like the auto repair shop before it. He never truly let himself believe it would happen, and hey, he still has his regular jobs to fall back on. The debts might go up again for a while but he got them down once before, he can do it again.

He dresses by rote, not really aware of it until he’s sitting on the bed fully clothed. That’s how Castiel finds him a few minutes later. He comes through the door carrying a tray laden with coffee and eggs and pastries (and Dean just knows that Castiel’s made them himself – he doesn’t need to ask). He smiles as he meets Dean’s eyes then falters at what he sees in then.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” He asks, setting the tray on a nearby table before coming closer. He does an awkward little shuffle, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself and then decides to sit next to Dean on the bed. He approaches with caution, as if Dean is a wild animal and might bolt out the door if startled.

Dean doesn’t want to tell him. He’s embarrassed. Not for Sam, if anyone can understand Bela’s influence it’s Castiel, but for himself. For being forced back into the horrid state of poverty that he’d worked so hard to escape. And for the fact that he hasn’t been able to protect his brother from Bela’s manipulations, when Dean already knew exactly what she was. Dean doesn’t want to tell Castiel any of that fucked up shit, but he does, he can’t help it, and he regrets it as soon as it’s left his mouth.

Castiel’s face falls, goes hard as he listens to what Dean has to say. He moves away, stands up and walks around the room in agitation. “This is bad,” Castiel says at last. No shit, Sherlock, talk about stating the fucking obvious. He looks at Dean and frowns. “This is very bad. I don’t know what to say.” There’s a pause and Dean knows what’s coming even before Castiel opens his mouth. “Last night meant a lot to me, Dean. If you need m...”

“If you offer me money right now, Cas, I swear I’m going to punch you in the fucking face.” Dean looks up and pins Castiel with a withering look. He feels a twist of satisfaction when a muscle in Castiel’s jaw jumps. “I might be poor but I don’t need you leaving cash on the night-stand. I’ve had enough assholes think they can buy their way into my pants for one life-time. I don’t need it from you too.” Dean spits the words.

He knows he’s being unreasonable. He knows he doesn’t really mean it. But Castiel reels as if he’s been struck and Dean can’t stop himself. He has to drive a stake through the heart of whatever this thing between them is. He has to make sure it’s stone cold dead. He can’t be kept by Castiel. Every brain cells rebels at the thought. And Castiel deserves more than a penniless high school drop-out who works two jobs, and whose only hobbies are getting laid and getting shit-faced drunk every couple of weeks. It would never work between them. The pretty ideas about dates and days spent in bed; it was all bullshit, a stupid fantasy, or plain old madness. These things don’t happen in real life, and they definitely don’t happen to Dean.

“You’re right, Dean. I apologise.” Castiel’s voice slips back into its dusty old monotone. His eyes look dull and lifeless and Dean has to look away and swallow down the bile rising, hot and bitter, in his throat. This is what Dean wants. It’s the right thing to do. “Please finish getting ready and have some breakfast,” Castiel gestures to the tray and the food that’s already going cold. “I’ll leave you now.” It’s formal and cold, and Dean hates and needs it at the same time. “I suppose you’ll want to get home right away to start sorting things out, so I won’t have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner?” Dean nods, just once. It does the trick and then it’s over, before it ever really began “Good luck in the competition, Dean,” Castiel says. He leaves the room and doesn’t look back.

All the good luck wishes in the world don’t stop the day’s bake being as big a disaster as the rest of Dean’s life. He can’t focus. Concentration shot to pieces. He realises half way through the technical challenge (a complicated plaited loaf similar to the one he’d watched Castiel make the day before – and isn’t that just a kick in the teeth) that this will be his last day on the show. Really, he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s already given up. He’s tired and just wants to go home. Wants to curl up under that rock he crawled out from and pretend this whole thing was a big insane dream. Then he’ll get up tomorrow, go to work at the garage and the Roadhouse, and everyone will be just as they were before. It will be as if none of it ever happened. 


	5. Longbourne

**Part 5: Longbourne**

Life goes on, and on, in its familiar humdrum ways. It’s not a shock for Dean to go back to reality. It’s easy to fall back into a life he can sleepwalk through. Bobby and the guys at Singers Auto’s stop giving him sympathetic looks after a few days of Dean glaring and cussing, and stomping around growling at people like a bear with a sore head. Becky temporarily bans him from the reception area on the grounds that he’s frightening the customers. Someone, probably Ellen or Jo, has clearly warned the regulars at the Roadhouse not to ask him about the Bake-Off, because no one mentions so much as a donut in his hearing.

It’s probably for the best. Dean can’t even bring himself to turn on an oven, let alone make anything. He lives on take out and whatever Ellen feeds him while he’s on his breaks at work. He’s taken up drinking as a hobby; not enough to be a serious problem, but enough to make his friends share concerned looks behind his back. He ignores his emails. He doesn’t answer his phone when Pam calls. Even though he knows he’s supposed to do extra promotion for the show before it goes to air. It was part of what they’d paid him for upfront, but with the money gone, it feels like the obligation is gone as well (it’s nothing to do with avoiding Castiel again, he tells himself, and he almost believes it too).

“It was just a competition,” he overhears Jo saying one day while she’s tucked around the corner of the bar and unaware of Dean’s presence. “He made it to the quarterfinal, which is pretty good going. I don’t understand why he’s still so upset. It’s not like it was ever guaranteed he’d get the big prize. He told me himself he thought that Novak guy would win.”

It makes Dean feel unaccountably ill. His lungs contract and he feels like he’s going to suffocate. He goes outside to breath in what passes for clean air when you’re still within the city limits and right next to a traffic-choked road.

He’s acting like an idiot and Dean knows it. He needs to get over it because, like Jo said, as far as anyone else is concerned, all he lost was a competition. It shouldn’t be that big a deal. They think he’s acting like a brat, because they have no idea what is gone. He’s told no one about what had happened with Castiel. Dean can hardly think about it himself, so there is no way he can find the words to tell anyone else. Not even Sam, though he feels bad keeping it from him.

Bobby and Ellen know about the money. He had to tell them because he needed to pick up extra shifts (even then he has next to nothing left over after rent and loan repayments). At least they weren’t angry about their own money. They just repeated that it was a gift, and they had never wanted or expected a penny of it back. Dean was grateful and loved them both for it, more than ever.

If there was a single positive to come out of the whole fiasco, it was Bobby and Ellen becoming a couple. A little over a month after leaving Pemberley, they announce they’re getting married.

“At our age it don’t make any sense to be waiting around,” Bobby had said in his usual gruff way. But when he looks at his, not exactly blushing bride-to-be, there are stars in his eyes.

Sam visits for the hastily arranged engagement party. He’s still down about Sarah and carrying a burden of guilt about Bela. Dean still feels the blame lies on his own shoulders for not telling anyone about her.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll be making a lot of money in a few years and I swear I’ll pay it back, every penny, even if it takes ten years.” Sam has to raise his voice to be heard over the rather dubious country tunes playing on the jukebox. Someone (probably Jo) has cranked up the volume in the universally acknowledged sign for ‘it’s only a party once you can’t hear yourself think.’

Dean takes a mouth full of beer. He doesn’t really want to go over it again, but it’s the first time he’s seen Sam in person since then, so it’s only fair to let him have his say. “I told you already, Bela is a con-artist and I was taken in just as much as you. If I hadn’t been so enthusiastic about her there’s no way any of this would have happened. You’re not to blame. No more than me, or Castiel, or anyone else who knew about Bela and kept it quiet.”

“All the same, I feel responsible and I will pay you back.”

He tries to assume an air of light-hearted contentment. “It’s not like anything has really changed has it, Sam?” He lifts his bottle and uses it to indicate the rest of the room. “We’re back where we started. No better and only slightly worse.” Dean shrugs his shoulders, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, judging by the compassionate look on Sam’s face. “It’s not so bad. I still have a job and so do you. The only thing that’s really changed is that.” He points to Bobby and Ellen standing in the middle of an improvised dance floor swaying in time to a terrible ballad. Bobby even took off his cap for the special occasion and Dean can see the tips of his ears are bright red. “It was Ellen that did the proposing you know,” he changes the topic.

Sam grins. He always was a sap. “Really?”

“Yeah, she hedged around it a bit, but she kind of asked for my permission before-hand.”

“Your permission?”

“Yeah, I know. Those crazy kids, right?” He rolls his eyes and ignores the dull ache between his ribs that’s been bothering him for weeks. “She said me and you were the closest Bobby had to family, so I think she just wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be weirded out by it all.”

“I’ll always be weirded out by it,” Sam admits.

Dean laughs, but feels numb to the joy that should come with it. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too, but at least someone gets to have their happy ending.”   

Sam chews on his lip for a few minutes like he wants to say something but isn’t quite sure. With the mood Dean’s been in lately, he can’t blame him for being cautious. In the end, Sam looks away and calls to the bartender for another round of beers instead.

Dean can’t stand it. He’s been in a bad way, sure, but he’s not a complete dick; not quite yet anyway. “Spit it out Sam. Get whatever it is off your chest, since this seems to have turned into caring-sharing night at the Roadhouse.”

“Okay,” he says, pushing one of the new bottles that have just landed on the bar over towards Dean. “Look, don’t bite my head off for this... I’ve been wondering about you and Castiel Novak?”

Dean snorts in derision. “What are you talking about? There is no me and Castiel?” He folds his arms across his chest defensively. Nice one, Dean, really subtle.

“But there was something?” Sam makes an unintelligible gesture. “He liked you. Sarah was pretty sure he had a crush on you – she used to tease him about it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Well if he did, and that’s a pretty big if, it ended when this thing with Bela happened. He must think we’re complete fucking idiots.”

Sam looks confused. “How would he even know about it?”

Shit. “I was at Pemberley wasn’t I,” he shrugs and tries to ignore the sick feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach.

It happens whenever the memory get too close; every time Dean accidentally catches sight of the promotional stuff the show has started putting out. There are ads on TV and in magazines, and he has to switch off the set, or turn the page, to stay away from those sad blue eyes gazing out at him. He remembers the day of the photo shoot. It was early on, back before the competition had started. Dean had been joking about with Charlie and Andy and hadn’t paid Castiel the slightest bit of attention. Now Castiel was all Dean could see when he looked at the pictures. The curve of his mouth; the unruly mop of dark hair that was stupidly soft from the expensive crap he used on it; his long fingered hands and the way they felt against Dean’s skin. It all practically jumped off the page and strangled him. The pain was still red and raw, and it burnt like holding his hand against a spinning grindstone.  

“I saw him at breakfast just after I spoke to you,” Dean says, looking away, so Sam can’t see the lie written on his face. “And he knew Bela so, you know, I asked his advice or whatever.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. He looks unconvinced, but Dean isn’t willing to give any more. “Okay. Makes sense I suppose.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like we’ll ever see him or any of that lot again. It’s not like they were ever very likely to stop by the bar and buy us a drink for old times’ sake.”

“I never expected I’d see Sarah again, Dean. She made me happier than I’d been in a long time, but we never made each other any promises.”

No promises. That was the way to do it. No promises of future dates. No stupid fucking things whispered between the sheets of a giant bed, late at night, under the influence of a fuzzy post orgasm brain. Those sorts of promises were doomed to fail from the start, fragile filaments that can snap and break at the slightest pressure. 

“And, Dean, you never liked Castiel much anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what he thinks about you now, does it?” Sam goes on.

“I suppose not,” Dean grouches. Sam’s right, none of it matters.

Sam looks like he might say something more as Ellen comes over and gives them each a kiss on the cheek. She’d already done it when they first arrived and Dean suspects she’s a little drunk.

“You boys need to come and dance,” she says. “There are plenty of ladies out there looking for a fine partner to spin them about a bit.” She’s slurring slightly, so definitely drunk. Dean doesn’t even want to think about how much alcohol it took to get Ellen like that.

“You know we would Ellen,” Dean smirks at her, grateful for the distraction. “But Sam’s still got a bum leg and someone’s got to sit here with him to make sure Becky doesn’t get at him while he can’t run away.”

Ellen grumbles a little. “Now you know that isn’t so. Little Becky’s got herself a fella now, so I think Sam’s probably safe.”

“That’s not what we came to say,” Bobby buts in. “We came to tell you two idjits that we want to give you the money to invest in a store, a bakery, Dean, like you wanted. Think of it as a wedding present.”

“What?” Dean puts his beer down on the bar carefully, not sure that he’s heard correctly.

Sam looks equally confused. “I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of a wedding present. You’re supposed to get gifts – not give them.”

“Well we don’t want to do things like everyone else,” Ellen says, giving Sam a none-too-gentle smack on the back of his hairy head.

Bobby nods and looks at Dean who’s staring at them, uncomprehending. “We already got ourselves set up nicely,” Bobby says slowly, using small words that Dean can understand. Yes? Good. “But we ain’t going to need two places to live. So we’re going to sell the apartment attached to this place. It’s not worth a fortune, but it’ll get us enough to give some to you.”

“And enough to do a few other things before we get to old for it,” Ellen interrupts. She’s been talking about travelling recently, about seeing some of the world beyond American shores. Dean’s pretty sure Bobby has Castiel and their time at Pemberley to thank for that.

Bobby looks resigned, “Yeah, that too.”

“I can’t take your money. It should go to Jo if anyone, not me, I don’t...”

“What? Deserve it? Is that what you were going to say?” Ellen looks fierce and Dean remembers why he was scared of her as a kid. She leans down and cups his cheek; a mother’s touch, warm and reassuring. Dean has to swallow around a lump in his throat. “Dean, you deserve more happiness than almost anyone else I’ve ever known. You’ve had little enough of it. You were dealt a tough hand and you’ve played it as well as anyone could. Let us do this for you. It’s really not the big deal you think it is.” She drops her hand and stands up. “And Jo can look after her own damn self,” she calls.

“Damn right,” Jo shouts from the dance floor. “You take that money, Dean, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“I know you’ve got that same pride in you that your father had,” Bobby joins in. “So instead of handing it over, how about we call it an investment? Ellen and me, we’ll be your silent partners. And when you’re making a profit you can either pay us back or give us a share of it.”

“We’ll work it whichever way you want,” Ellen says. “But we won’t take no for an answer. So get used to it.”

“How much are you thinking?” Sam jumps in. There’s a glint in his eye that makes Dean think he might not have been completely unaware of this plan.

Bobby clears his throat. “Well, as business owners, we already know a thing or two about starting up. We did a bit of research about things you’ll need; rents and licences and the like. We wouldn’t be happy putting in a penny less than fifty thousand.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open, “Bobby, that’s more than we had saved before.”

“Sweetheart, we were always going to give you more. We just wanted to find the perfect time to tell you.” Ellen tells him.

“And this is it.” Bobby makes it sound like that’s the final word on the matter. That’s the way it is and there’ll be no arguments.”

The only thing Dean can do is accept.

Bobby and Ellen are married as fall rolls in and the temperature slips towards the winter lows. Dean hoped it would mark a turning point after the disappointments of the summer. There was something to look forward to now, a bright star on the horizon, something to move towards. But the point never came, or if it did, he’d missed it completely. Dean wasn’t miserable, far from it, he had every reason to be happy, but instead he was sad and he didn’t know why.

The explanation made itself known, subtly, in small parts and fragments over the course of the long fall months. It showed in the way Dean looked away when he saw the Novak Corporation logo; in the way he changed the subject whenever anyone mentioned the Bake-Off or Castiel’s name (which was happening more frequently now that it aired with the fall TV schedule); in the flashes of brown hair and blue eyes, and the taste of whiskey on soft lips, that lingered in the mornings, leaving him hard and furious, helplessly wishing he could fall asleep and dream again.

Sometimes it hit him out of the blue; like the day he saw a poster for the show pasted down the side of a bus. A picture of the cast all lined up in a row. Dean remembered vividly, he’d grouched at Pam because she’d made him stand next to “That asshole Novak.” He’d been so fierce in his self-righteous fury back then, that he hadn’t seen the way Castiel looked at him, with a puzzled frown, and the pull at the side of his mouth that passed as a smile. They’d been told to put their arms around each other in a show of camaraderie and Castiel hesitated. Dean had taken it as an insult, as though Castiel (or Novak as he was to Dean back then) was too good to ever put his hands on Dean. He knew now it was never that at all. In fact, it was the complete opposite. The sight of that picture threw him into such turmoil, he hardly noticed when the bus moved on and drenched him in cold muddy water from a puddle.

He found the same promo in a magazine in Bobby’s waiting room a few days later. For a mad moment, he thought about tearing it out to keep, before he realised how utterly pathetic that was. He wished he had a few days later, when the same picture makes its way onto the notice-board behind Becky’s desk.

“Look how cute you are, Dean!” she squeals, “And you never told me how handsome Castiel Novak is; shame on you.”

“Yeah, well they did a good job with Photoshop on that one,” he grumbles and ignores her pert noise of disbelief.

It’s the end of the day and Becky’s reception area is empty of the bored coffee-swilling customers that usually occupy the collection of mismatched seats that line the wall. Dean’s there because of the unwritten rule that everyone at Bobby’s has to say goodnight to Becky, or she takes it as a personal affront. It’s far easier to go along with what she wants, than to face her pinch-faced wrath for the two weeks it takes her to forgive you.

The board behind Becky’s head is littered with even more pictures and newspaper cuttings about the Bake-Off. The one from that morning, with him and Castiel together, is tacked in pride of place at the centre. The rest of the clippings are arranged around it, spinning out like the arms of a pin-wheel.  

“Don’t go working too hard on that crush of yours, Becky,” he teases as he goes by. “I think Garth might get jealous. And you know, Cas... Castiel can be a real asshole sometimes.”

She snorts a laugh and punches him on the shoulder. She’s strong for a skinny little chick. It hurts. “Don’t be an idiot, Dean. I know better than to have a crush on a guy that only has eyes for you.” She lifts a finger and points, with unnerving accuracy, at the picture behind her head. “And don’t call him an asshole,” she adds seriously. “He’s a sweetie and I can see why you like him.”

“I don’t like him,” he says.

She snorts. Dean shrugs. He’s not getting into arguments about it, when he’s not even sure what he thinks or feels.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Dean. You like him, and why wouldn’t you? He’s gorgeous.” She swivels her chair and looks up at the notice-board and considers the pictures for a few seconds. “These pictures don’t really do him justice do they? Especially his eyes, they’re a much deeper blue in real life. Not so much like sapphires, there’s more in them than that, they’re more like...”

“Galaxies,” Dean finishes for her.

Becky snaps her fingers. “Exactly,” she says, “You can’t really see that in the pictures or on the TV.” She sighs. “God, you could drown in those eyes, couldn’t you.” She spins back around and fixes Dean with a critical eye before a new dreamy look falls over her face. “You’d make beautiful babies together.” 

Dean stares at her, then starts to laughs as she breaks out a broad grin. She’s mad and that’s a really weird thing to say, but it’s a cute sentiment and...

Wait, he’s missing something.

Something tingles on the edge of Dean’s consciousness as he rewinds his way through the conversation until... He looks at her and asks, slowly and clearly so there’s no mistake, “Becky, did you just say Cas looks better in real life?”

She looks up at him still smiling happily. “Well yes, I...” her face falls and she suddenly tries to hide from him by shuffling the papers on her desk, which have apparently become the most interesting thing in the world. “Shit,” she says quietly, under her breath, when it’s obvious Dean isn’t going away.

“Becky, when did you meet Castiel?”

Her mouth flaps open and closed like a fish out of water. She darts a look around the room as if she might find something there to help her. When nothing comes to her rescue, she tries very hard not to look Dean in the eye, and she stammers out, “I didn’t. I mean I haven’t. It was just a guess?”

Dean doesn’t mean to be angry but the lie is obvious. He slams his hand down against the desk. She flinches. “You’re a bad liar, Becky,” Dean growls. “Tell me the truth.”

“Dean, I wasn’t supposed to say anything about it,” she says, and fuck, it looks like she’s about to cry. “Bobby made me promise, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, Dean. I told them they should tell you.”

“Tell me what?” It comes out low and threatening.

Her lip wobbles and she looks scared. Then Bobby is at Dean’s elbow pulling him away from looming over the poor girl. “Let her be, Dean. It’s not her fault. I asked her not to say anything.”

Dean swallows down his anger, and the riot of emotions that threaten to boil his brain into mush. “Castiel was here?” he asks. Bobby nods a yes. “He was here and you didn’t tell me.” It doesn’t seem possible. How can Castiel have been here? It seems so unlikely that Dean can’t even imagine it, can’t picture Castiel, in his expensive clothes and shiny shoes, here among the everyday muck and grind setting of Dean’s life.

Bobby puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, steers him away from Becky who’s still staring at him with watery eyes, and propels him into the back office. “I’ll explain everything, Dean, just calm down. Here,” he fishes in his top drawer, pulls out a silver hip flask and tosses it to Dean. He catches it easily. “Might help take the edge off that quick anger of yours,” Bobby says. “Sometimes you remind me of your father, and I ain’t talking about the good parts of him. You best go apologise to that little girl after we’re done here,” he says. “She’s not a part of this mess you and Castiel have managed to get yourselves into.”

The harshness of the cheap scotch slipping down Dean’s throat does the trick and shocks a grain of sense back into him. He looks at Bobby, shame-faced and contrite. “I will, you know I will.”

Bobby nods and puts out a hand for Dean to pass back the flask. He takes a big gulp from it himself, before blowing out a hard breath. Bobby shakes his head, “S’pose you want to hear the whole story then?”

“That would be good, Bobby, yeah.”

“You might not like it, but I reckon you’ve got a right to know.” Bobby leans back in his chair and it creaks loud under his weight. “Not long after you came home from the competition, I got a call from one of Castiel’s assistants. He was asking to see me, in private, and since he was so hospitable at Pemberley, I didn’t see anything wrong with agreeing to it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean tries to ask, but Bobby holds up a finger to stop him, determined to finish the story first.

“I met him here on one of your days off. It was early, but Becky was already in, which is why she knows about it. He came to ask for my help, to help you, and I was happy to give it. Said he felt responsible for what that Bela woman had done to you. That if he hadn’t kept quiet about what happened to his sister, she would never have been allowed near the competition. I told him none of us blamed him but he wouldn’t listen. He wanted to make amends and he had the resources to do it. He wanted me to help him find a way to get you to accept the money.” Bobby laughs then and it’s a gruff bark of a sound. “Seems to know you pretty well this guy. Knew you’d never take the money if he offered it, and he wasn’t wrong was he?”

“No,” Dean admits. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“So I talked to Ellen and we came up with a plan. We were trying to find a way to help you anyway, so the bones of the idea were already there. We were going to sell the flat attached to the side of the Roadhouse and give you some of the money. It’s a crappy little thing, and Ellen’s mostly only used it for storage this last ten years, so we knew we wouldn’t get much for it.”

“And?”

“And we arranged for Castiel to buy it. Keep up, boy, this ain’t brain surgery. Castiel bought it for quite a bit more than it was worth. Even threw in a little extra as a wedding gift to Ellen and me so we can go on that damn-fool holiday she won’t let up about.” He snorts. “And then we gave the money to you to get you set up.”

“How do I pay him back?” Dean asks.

“You don’t, Son. We told you it was a gift, and it is. Does it matter that it don’t come from us?”

Dean nods, trying hard to take it all in, to make sense of it

Bobby stands, moves around to the front of the desk, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and gives him a little shake like it might help knock some sense into him. “It’s the same arrangement, Dean, only now you know it should really be Castiel’s name on the paperwork for the bakery. And before you ask, he made it very clear there are no strings attached to this. He doesn’t want anything from you or from us. He didn’t even want you to find out about it.”

There’s a twinge of disappointment as Dean says, “Okay.” 

“Good boy.” Bobby offers him the flask again and he takes it gratefully. “You know he’s got people investigating Bela as well, looking to find other people she’s conned to see if they can’t build a case against her one way or another.”

“That’s good. Someone needs to do something.”Dean bites his lip and when he raises his eyes back to Bobby’s, he knows he must look lost. “I just don’t get why he would do it.”

Bobby scoffs at that. “We might be old, Dean, but Ellen and me, we ain’t blind. That boy cares for you more than you realise. That much was obvious from the moment we arrived at Pemberley. The guy could hardly keep his eyes off you... or so Ellen tells me,” he grumbles. “Now I don’t know what happened between you while we were there and I don’t want to know. It’s none of our business. But he thought he should do this for you, he wanted to do this for you, and he felt it strongly enough to organise it so he’d never get any credit for it, so you wouldn’t feel beholden to him. What you do now is up to you, but between you and me, I think our poker-faced Mr Novak has pretty much laid his cards on the table for all to see.”

Dean shakes the flask and is disappointed at the lack of any sloshing from inside. “You got anymore of this?” he asks hopefully. There a soft buzz of hope, confusion,  and worry, all mixing together into an amorphous blob that slicks and slides over his brain and makes it hard to think. He needs to work out what he’s going to do with this information. But first he just wants to get rat-ass drunk.

Bobby looks at him sympathetically. “It’s probably not the best way to solve your problems, but I’m not exactly qualified to preach temperance to anyone, so just this once I’ll see what I can do.” He goes off to rummage in the bottom drawer of an old brown filing cabinet, searching for long forgotten hooch.

In the pale fuzzy-headed space of the following morning, Dean spends a long time looking at himself in the cracked yellow-tinged mirror over the sink. Trying to work out if something is different, if these weird aches and pains in his chest, and the confusion fogging up his head, has manifested somehow on his body or in the shape of his face. But nothing is different, and all he sees are the shadows under his eyes from a terrible night’s sleep. “What is this?” Dean asks his reflection, before he bends his head and splashes his face with icy water. “And why can’t I get past it?” There’s no reply from the man looking back at him in the mirror.

It takes an honest-to-God slap in the face for Dean to work out what it is he’s really suffering from.

It’s around two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon and Dean is searching the engine of an old ford pick-up, looking for the source of an oil leak that’s left a mess of black grease everywhere, including a number of sticky smears across Dean’s face and hands, when Becky sticks her head into the workshop and yells...

“The most enormous car just pulled up outside. Guys, you’ve got to come see this. I think it might be the president or something!” She rushes back to the waiting room, dark blond hair streaming out behind her, and damn she’s fast when she wants to be. Some of the other guys follow her, but Dean’s had enough of rich folk and their chauffer driven asshole cars. He already knows it won’t be Castiel. He’s been disappointed too many times already.  Every time he sees a scruffy dark head in a crowd, or a glimpse of vivid blue eyes, the tiny mote of hope he carries disintegrates a little more. This isn’t some fucking fairytale, and Dean’s isn’t going to get a happy ending, maybe just an okay one if he’s very lucky. 

He ducks his head back under the rusted red hood and ignores the commotion beyond.

“What a terribly small place this is. You couldn’t fit more than three people in here with any level of comfort. And in this case, I use the word comfort to mean the most basic level of necessity. It’s as if you don’t want people to come in here. Girl, don’t you want the business to do well?”

There’s a bang as Dean stands up too quickly and smacks the back of his head. The voice is distinctive and he recognises it immediately. “Aunt Catherine?” he murmurs in disbelief. There is no reason he can think of to explain the presence of the grande-dame at Singer’s Autos. He doubts she needs an oil change.

The commotion moves closer. Dean can hear Becky saying, “If you’ll wait here Mrs... uh... ma’am, I’ll go get him. Customers aren’t supposed to go in the workshop.” Her voice is high pitched and panicky. If she carries on much longer only dogs will be able to hear her.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not a customer then isn’t it, girl.” She’s much closer now. “I am determined and I will not be put off by the likes of you.”

Dean recognises the click as the door between the shop and the waiting room opens. He keeps frowning down at the dirty engine in front of him, as it snaps back and slams closed. 

“Mr Winchester.” It sounds more like an accusation than a greeting.

He turns slowly to meet her gaze. There she is, as real as the rusty bubbles under the paint of the aging truck beside him. She looks down her long thin nose at him, hawk-like, eyes narrowed, her prey in sight. She looks incredibly out of place in her Chanel suit, pearls around her turkey neck, and diamonds on every finger, glittering under the lights hanging from the ceiling.  

“Aunt Catherine,” Dean says casually, with an incline of his head.

She bristles at the informality. Her iron grey bouffant hair wobbles irritably as she purses her lips tight together. “It’s Lady Catherine to you young man. You are no relation of mine, and you never will be, if I have any say in the matter.”

Uh. What? Dean’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Yes, I don’t usually bother with my title when I’m not in Europe,” she goes on, completely misunderstanding Dean’s bewilderment. “But perhaps it might give you a better idea of just who you are dealing with.” She pauses for a second, eyes narrowing further, and glinting like shiny little beads beneath her wrinkled eyelids. “Don’t pretend not to know why I’m here.”

“I honestly haven’t got the slightest idea,” Dean replies. He’s vaguely aware of the door to the waiting room opening with a quiet snick. Four pairs of eyes peaking through the crack; heads stacked one on top of the other like a bizarre living totem pole. Great, they were attracting an audience.

Lady Catherine’s mouth squeezes into an even smaller circle (not unlike a cat’s butthole) as she casts an imperious eye over the heads blinking at them from the doorway. They shrink before it. Becky at the bottom of the pile shuffles backwards in alarm and the other guys scrabble and fall as they try not to squash her.

“Is there somewhere we could talk, in private?” she demands more than asks. “Not that I have any hesitation about accusing you in front of your friends, but this has to do with my daughter and I’d rather protect her from it, if I possibly can.”

Dean nods and directs her to Bobby’s office. He can still hear his workmates whispering to each other like kids in a schoolyard. “Been messing with the lady’s daughter has he,” he hears, followed by, “typical Winchester.” There’s a dull thump followed by an “Ouch.” Then Becky’s voice saying, “Idiot, it’s about Castiel isn’t it.”

And before Dean can gather his wits, the office door closes and he is alone with the old lady.

“You should know that I am not to be trifled with,” she starts the moment the door shuts.

“Sure lady, no trifle, got it,” Dean says, adding a wink for extra cheek.

She rolls her eyes and looks up to the heavens in exasperation. “You might choose to pretend ignorance, Mr Winchester. But I make it a rule to be forthright and honest in all my dealings,” she declares. “Yesterday morning, I had a conversation that worried me exceedingly. I was informed that you were engaged in a romantic liaison with my nephew, Castiel Novak. Though I know it must be an impossible lie, I set off immediately, determined to get the truth from you.”

What the fuck? Dean stares back at her for a moment without blinking. Who was this woman, to be demanding anything from him? Let alone details of his sadly none existent love life. Bobby’s shop was Dean’s territory. Here, she was the intruder.

He puts on his most innocent face. “If you thought it was impossible, why did you come all this way to see me?”

She lifts her head and stares him down. “I wanted confirmation of the lie from the source. As I know this falsehood must have come from you.” She sneers at him.

“If there is a story going around, it doesn’t come from me,” he tells her honestly. “But you coming here will make people think something is going on.”

She breaths a sigh of relief. “It doesn’t come from you,” she repeats with a satisfied nod. “And you know nothing about it?”

“Not until you came in here shouting about it.”

“Mr Winchester,” she says, smiling now, as if she already has her prize. “Will you please confirm for me that you are not in a relationship with my nephew?”

He leans back and perches his ass on the edge of Bobby’s desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve already said that would be impossible. I don’t see why you’d need anything more from me.”

“It should be impossible,” she explains with a sneer. “He is rich and you are poor, he has responsibilities and duty to his family and you have...” she looks around at the untidy paper work, the oil stained rags, and broken tools. “You have nothing. But I know how these things work. I know how people like you use your,” she gestures to all of him, waving her hand in an indiscriminate manner, “physical attractions to draw people in and make them confuse lust for love.”

“If I did have a plan, I’d be stupid to admit it to you,” Dean scoffs. “And if you can’t believe a word I say it doesn’t really matter if I deny it or not, does it? So I have to ask again. Why did you come here, Lady Catherine?”

“Young man, do you know who I am?” she demands. She’s beginning to turn red in her fury and Dean can’t help that it makes him smirk. “I am not used to being spoken to like this. Let me be as clear as possible. There can never be anything more serious between the two of you than a passing flirtation; if indeed any such thing ever took place. Castiel is engaged to my daughter.” She looks triumphant. “What do you have say to that?”

Actually it makes Dean feel sick, but he doesn’t say that, after all it’s not poor drab Daphne’s fault her mother’s a controlling asshole. “If that’s true then why are you so worried about me getting in the way?”

“The engagement has not been formalised,” she grudgingly admits. “But it has been intended since they were children. It was Castiel’s mother’s greatest wish, as well as mine.”

Dean sighs dramatically, like he’s bored of the conversation. “So now you’re telling me he isn’t actually engaged at all. Really, lady, this is very confusing.”

She stamps her foot in frustration. “Tell me now, once and for all, are you in a relationship with my nephew or not?”

“No,” he replies, “I’m not.” His voice cracks sadly with the admission.

She relaxes now the object of her visit is within her grasp. “And finally, Mr Winchester, can you confirm that you are not in love with my nephew?”

He gapes at her and she squints back, all predatory and expectant.

There’s a moment when Dean is stunned into silence, when it feels like someone has reached into his chest and crumpled up his heart. He half expects to look down and see Aunt Catherine’s arm sticking out of his chest. It feels like standing on a precipice, waiting for the wind to knock him one way or the other. Tiny fragments of the picture Dean’s been missing finally merge to create something unified, a whole. The slivers of sadness and splinters of pain that have stabbed at him in a multitude of ways, for weeks on end, suddenly make sense. There’s one simple answer that is so fucking obvious, he can’t keep from smiling.

“No,” Dean says, giddy with revelation. He looks at her horrified face and stands up straight so he’s looking down at her. “I can’t.”

The side of his face burns from the force of her palm against his cheek. The sound of the slap takes a long time to fade, trapped inside the confines of Bobby’s office. Dean presses fingertips to the heated area of skin. Yet all he can do is laugh.

He’s in love with Castiel. It’s the most ridiculous, most astounding thing that’s ever happened to him.

Lady Catherine splutters with rage, muttering about, “Insufferable presumption,”“Jumped-up-nobodies,” and “How-dare-you.” Considerably less composed than when she arrived, she stomps away, her little black shoes clicking on the cement floor as she goes. “Very well,” she hisses. “If this is the gratitude you show for my family’s generous attentions to you, then I am ashamed of you. I shall know how to act and what to do next.” She sweeps out cutting a path through the motley crew of grease-monkeys gathered outside. Then she’s gone. Good riddance.

Bobby arrives late to the party. His truck pulls up out front as Lady Catherine’s limousine drives away. “I hear the old lady paid you a visit? Came to warn you off did she?” Amazing how much Becky could info-dump in the space of a few seconds.

“I don’t know what she thinks is going on,” Dean grumbles. “It’s not like I’ve even spoken to the guy in months, let alone seen him.”

“But you’d like to, huh?” Dean makes no answer, but Bobby nods anyway. He pats Dean awkwardly on the shoulder with a big grimy hand. “You never know, son, stranger things have happened. I mean look at me, a newly-wed, at my age.” He walks away chuckling, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the workshop with his workmates staring like he’s an exhibit in a side show.

It’s not much fun from his point of view, and Dean suddenly has a huge amount of sympathy for what Castiel must go through, being whispered about and pointed at whenever he’s in public. Now Dean feels guilty, not only for participating in it, but for having encouraged it among the other Bake-Off contestants in the first place. Jesus, Dean’s been such a dick at times, no wonder Castiel would rather deal with Bobby.

Dean takes a few calming breaths and stretches his neck out, moving it from side to side, trying to relieve the tension before he settles back into work. He hopes the routine will help take his mind off the tiny tap-dance troupe currently staging a performance on the wrong side of his ribs. Help him ignore the pesky voice in the back of his head that’s starting to suggest terrible, impossible things (you could see him, it might not be too late, it might not be over).

Bobby chases him out of the workshop two hours early, declaring Dean a danger to himself and telling him to stay away, “Until you get your head out of your ass.”

*** * * * * * ***

Dean finds the perfect place to set up shop just as fall turns into winter. The days get shorter and colder, but he’s kept busy, and warm, with the fire of enthusiasm for new challenges and new things ahead. The shop itself almost falls into Dean’s lap. It’s like a gift from a fortunate network of someone-who-knows-someone-who-knows-a-place, which spins out like a web, criss-crossing the town from the hub of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

It lands Dean in a former cafe on Longbourne Street. It’s already finished to a high standard and only needs a lick of paint and a bigger display counter before things can get going (he’s reliably informed that the cafe didn’t go bust, they flourished and moved on to a bigger place as the seating space is limited). The main thing is that the kitchens are spacious. The ovens are big and shiny, in chrome and white, with retro looking dials you just couldn’t help but want to spin (though you really shouldn’t, they’re expensive to replace).

The shop front is small; only room for a handful of tables and chairs. It doesn’t matter because this isn’t a cafe. The tables are only there to tempt people in to try the products. It’s clean and neat, and by the time Dean’s finished with it, there isn’t a doily or frill in sight (unless you count the apron Bobby gave him as a gift, that hangs in all its yellow-and-white gingham glory on the back of the kitchen door). The plan is to move the bulk of the sales online. Sam has spent weeks working on the website in his free time. Dean suspects he still feels guilty about the whole Bela thing, and heck if that’s what it takes to make Sam feel better, who is Dean to argue.

It even comes with a small apartment up a narrow flight of stairs at the back. It’s not big, but it doesn’t have to be, to be bigger than Dean’s old one; and there’s not a spore of mold or patch of damp in sight. It’s on the fringes of the old town, among the independent stores popular with college kids and lunching moms, an area Dean could never have afforded to live before. It’s nice. The sort of place he wouldn’t be ashamed to bring someone back to if the right someone appeared. He hadn’t yet.

Dean still wasn’t sure what to do about Castiel. A part of him wanted to find him and confess all the romantic crap they say in the movies then take him to bed and not leave it for a week. But there was another, bigger and noisier part that still worried that Castiel wouldn’t want him now, despite all of Bobby’s reassurance, all Becky’s teasing (once she’d forgiven him), and all Sam’s words of encouragement (once he’d gotten over being pissed off about Dean keeping “the romance of the century” from him). Dean thought maybe he’d left it too long and might be holding onto something that didn’t really exist anymore. It filled him with fear. How did you tell someone, “Thank you,” and “I love you,” without knowing if it was going to be thrown back in your face.

Instead, Dean convinces himself that he needs to wait until the store is open. That way he can face Castiel as a business owner, someone with a future, not a penniless idiot, only scraping by at the end of each month.

“But he fell in love with a penniless idiot,” Jo helpfully pointed out a few weeks ago.

“Gee thanks, Jo. Tell me what you really think why don’t you,” he’d snapped back. “Anyway, you’re the one saying he’s in love. I don’t know that. You don’t know that. It might have been nothing. Maybe he does that kind of thing all the time.” Even Dean knew he was talking bullshit right then.

“Dean, have you watched the show?” she asked, her eyes narrow, and whoa did she look like her mother (damn scary, in other words).

“No. I don’t want to see it.” The show was still a sore spot for him and he couldn’t bear to watch it. He got recognised in the street sometimes, now the show was being broadcast. Not all the time, but often enough to know that people were watching it. He’d finally answered one of Pam’s calls a few weeks ago and she told him it was doing so well the network had already ordered a second season. It hadn’t been all bad though. A few magazines had approached him about featuring in articles about the show and he’d agreed to do a recipe column, once a week, for a local paper – it was stupid but it was all promotion for the business and extra dollars in the bank.

“Well maybe you should. Because it’s pretty obvious how he feels from the massive hearts in his eyes every time he looks at you.”

“You’re making it up. He never looked at me, Jo, not until maybe the last two rounds.”

She pulled a face that said “really?” without even having to open her mouth. “And don’t even get me started on the number of times the cameras caught you drooling over the sight of his ass.”

“What?” he splutters, spraying a mouthful of beer onto the bar. Ellen shouts at them for it.

Jo shrugs. “Cameras don’t lie, Dean, but I think maybe you’re lying to yourself.” She leans on the bar across from him. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“Astonish me, Jo. What are you going to do?”

“If you don’t get in touch with him within a week of opening that damn shop of yours, I’m going to track Mr handsome-ass down; drag him back here, and lock the two of you in the beer cellar for a couple of days, till you’ve worked it all out.”

Jo wasn’t the only person to have threatened him like that, but her approach was probably the most imaginative. It all added up to the same thing. He wasn’t going to contact Castiel until after the shop was opened. How long he would try and put if off after that was anyone’s guess (and he was pretty sure there was a betting pool set up at the Roadhouse about it).

The shop is due to open in early December; hoping to cash in on both the popularity of the Bake-Off and the fast approaching Christmas rush. It’s a few days away yet. He’ll be baking for a few days beforehand, with some hired help, to stock the counter and get the samples ready. The Show, as it turns out, was good training for the long, high pressure days of baking that lay ahead.

It’s too early to start yet and Dean’s at a loose end, moping about in the shop and moving things around that don’t need moving. The weather outside is shit. A couple of days of light rain finally turned into a downpour. It’s the sort of rain that sticks and slithers down the back of your collar, no matter what you do to try and stop it. It’s a relief when Dean’s cell buzzes and interrupts his dreary worried thoughts.

He puts on his best cheerful voice. “Twice in one day. What’s up Sam, you missing me or something?”

“Yeah, I’m missing you,” Sam replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I got news,” he speaks low and sounds excited. Dean plonks himself down on one of the chairs, his back to the papered-over windows where the rain rattles, squally and unpredictable, loud one minute and quiet the next.

“Is it something good?” Dean’s cautious these days, wary of how quickly things can turn sour if you don’t pay attention.

“The best,” he says and Dean can hear the smile carried on his voice. “Sarah called, she’s moving to California for a while; an extended while, and she wants to see me. Like ‘see me’ see me. Turns out she never got any of the messages I left for her. She lost her phone and then Meg basically intercepted all the other messages I sent. Sarah challenged her about it and Meg confessed she never passed them on. Sarah thought I was the one that pulled away. It was all a huge misunderstanding. Can you believe it?”

Yes, Dean can believe it. He already knew. Damn Sam for being so accepting and never mentioning Sarah, because Dean had completely forgotten to tell him about it, too wrapped up in all the other shit that was going on with Castiel to remember. God, he really was a dick of a brother sometimes.

“Aw, Sammy, did she ask you to go steady,” Dean chuckles down the phone, pretending this was the first he’d heard about it. This is good news, he thinks. This is very good news.

“Actually, she kind of did, yeah.” Sam sounds sheepish.

Dean laughs and it feels good. “I always knew she was nuts,” he jokes, “but seriously, Sam, I’m happy for you, she’s a great girl.”

“Even if she has crappy friends?” Sam finishes the déjà vu for him. “She’s coming over tonight.”

“Well what you still talking to me for? Hadn’t you better get started on washing your hair or something?” Dean ends the call soon after, telling his brother to say hi from him. He successfully stops himself from asking Sam to find out where Castiel is (or who he’s with). Afterwards Dean presses the dark screen of the cell to his forehead, it’s cool, and it calms some of the agitation that thinking about Castiel always brings.

The days are short in December. Even though it’s not late, the afternoon is dark and dimmed further by the rain-clouds overhead. He switches on some of the lights in the store and thinks about looking for a new recipe. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Dean had decided to focus on pie as his speciality product. He fetches his laptop from the kitchen, where he left it earlier that day, planning on doing some last minute searches, looking for inspiration.

A knock on the door makes Dean jump. The windows are papered over and he can’t see who it is. If it was anyone he knew, or wanted to see, they’d know to call first. “We don’t open ‘til Saturday,” he shouts, acerbic in his tone. It’s right there on the God-damn sign for fuck’s sake. Can’t people read? Or do they just think things don’t apply to them?

He goes into the kitchen. He can hear the asshole outside knocking again, harder this time, and it somehow manages to sound pissed off. Jesus Christ. Dean comes back out and stomps closer to the door. He feels his cell buzz again, against his hip, as he waits for the stranger to stop. “Dude, go away. We open on Saturday; come back then.”

He’s fumbling the phone out of his pocket as the person on the other side of the door grumbles a sad, “Okay, sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s staring down at the message glowing on the screen.

From Sam: _Btw just a heads up. Sarah says Castiel is near Kansas and wants to stop by before the opening. Good Luck Dean x p.s be honest and don’t mess it up._

Dean’s head snaps up. “Fuck.”

He’s out the door in an instant. Freezing rain slants towards him and hits him full in the face. It makes him blink and shiver as he searches. Up and down the rain ravaged street there are figures walking fast, bent over, heads down, trying to get out of the rain as fast as possible.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Dean repeats over and over, panicking that it’s too late and Castiel’s already jumped into a waiting car and driven off, out of Dean’s life forever; all because Dean’s an asshole who can’t open a door like a regular person.

He sees him. Not too far away, wrapped in an ugly tan overcoat that’s doing it’s best to protect him against the wind and the rain.

“Cas!” Dean starts to run. He doesn’t give a fuck that people are staring. “Castiel,” he shouts again and this time it works. Castiel stops. He turns around just as Dean pulls up a couple of steps away.

The words die on Dean’s lips and he can only stare. Becky was right. The pictures really don’t do Castiel justice. His hair is wet and plastered to his head. He’s wearing a nice but dull (and now probably ruined) suit. His cheeks and the end of his nose are pink from the cold and his eyes are equal parts shock and sadness.

He’s the most perfect thing Dean’s ever laid eyes on. He always was.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Dean says, wiping a hand across his face to clear the rain from his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just wanted...” Castiel begins but seems to lose the thread of what he was saying and falls silent. Good God, that voice. Dean’s missed that voice; the coffee and molasses that makes him shiver and sends sparks tumbling over his skin. He wants to swallow it, heavy and sweet, pull it into his own mouth and savour every drop.

“You could have called.”

“You never gave me your number.”  

“Oh.”

“I just wanted to wish you luck with the store, Dean. I know it will be a success.”

“Cas, why did you wait so long to come?” It’s unfair to ask, Dean knows it, but if there’s a reason, if it’s too late, he has to know.

Castiel blinks, shifts on his feet and looks worried. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”

Dean shakes his head, unbelieving. “After everything you’ve done for me? Why the fuck would you think that?”

Realisation dawns in Castiel’s eyes. “So you know about the money then?”

“Yeah I do, and I wanted to thank you,” Dean blurts out. “Not just for what you’ve done for me, and Bobby and Ellen, the store and everything... But for Sam too, I know you must have arranged things to put Sarah in California... ”

“I didn’t do it for them.” The words come out in a snap, abrupt and hard, and Dean blinks in surprise. “I mean,” Castiel takes a breath and lowers his voice, drops his eyes down to the ground and an intense study of the puddles forming on the sidewalk near to their feet, little crowns of water splashing up, from the impact of each fat drop of rain. “Much as I respect them, I thought only of you, of the harm my behaviour and my actions have caused you, and how I could put it right. I was too proud to let anyone know about what Bela had done to my sister. Too concerned with the damage it would cause to her reputation, the reputation of my family, to see her brought to justice. If I’d been more open, her character would have been known and she couldn’t have taken advantage of you. I never considered what harm she might be doing to other people and it took this,” he falters. “It took losing you, to see how wrong I was. Not just in that, but in other ways too.” He looks up then, blue eyes huge and shiny, tiny drops of water beading on his dark eyelashes. “You were right in a lot of the things you said to me that day in your apartment and until then, I’d never had a reason to look at myself critically. I was not happy with what I found and I’ve been trying to put it right, to gain your forgiveness.”

Castiel hangs his head, chews on his bottom lip nervously, rain drips off his chin, before he looks up at Dean – it’s just about the cutest thing and Dean’s heart squeezes and he just knows he’s about to do something really stupid. “Dean,” Castiel goes on. “I know I can’t ever correct all the mistakes I’ve made, but I had to come here and see if there was any hope... for us... my wishes are unchanged.”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts. “You’re an asshole.”

Castiel’s face moves from desperate hope to despair in the time it takes for a heart to beat. “So people keep telling me,” he says sadly. “Maybe I should go.” He starts to turn but Dean’s hand shoots out to grasp his shoulder. He digs his fingers in to make sure Castiel can’t get away, and forces him to stop, forces him to turn back.

Dean smiles as he catches Castiel’s gaze and refuses to let it go. “You’re an asshole because you take responsibility for things that aren’t your fault. You’re an asshole because you don’t know how to apologise without sounding like a pre-historic dick. You’re an asshole because you think you know what other people are thinking without bothering to ask.” He takes a step forward, pulls Castiel to him, until their chests bump and Castiel gasps. “You’re an asshole because you don’t need my forgiveness. I was angry that morning and I lashed out, but I never blamed you, Cas, not really. ”

His heart is nearly beating out his chest as he presses a hand to the side of Castiel’s face, his fingers wet and slipping. There’s a pause, a second, and he knows it’s make or break. He thinks of Sam’s text and his simple perfect advice, _be honest_.

It’s completely effortless, and the hardest thing Dean’s ever done as he presses forward and whispers against rain slicked lips, “Castiel Novak, you’re an asshole, and I’m in love with you.”

A small needy sound reaches Dean’s ears, almost hidden beneath the noise of the downpour and the splashes of cars driving by, and Castiel moves. Their mouths come together with a force that has Dean staggering backwards. His arms wind around Castiel’s back, hands clenching and twisting in the wet material of the ugly tan coat; he needs it to stay standing. Castiel is grabbing Dean’s face, sliding his fingers back and up into the wet hair at the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him closer than should be possible, until they are practically occupying the same space; physics can fuck right off.

Castiel’s lips are cool and taste of clean rain water but his mouth is hot like a furnace, and Dean is happy to melt into it. Groans vibrate between them. Travelling from one mouth to the other, only to be chased back again and swallowed whole. Castiel’s movements are frantic, hands restless, nails scratching over scalp and skin. There is desperation coded into his assault on Dean’s mouth. The bites and licks that force a way inside to pour molten lava into Dean’s mouth are wild, infused with relief; equal parts possession and surrender. It starts a chain reaction, a hundred shooting stars set loose to spin and burn a path through Dean’s body, and he gives as good as he gets.

There’s a wolf-whistle. “Get a room!” someone shouts. It drags them away from each other for a moment of stunning clarity. Fuck; they’re on the sidewalk grabbing and pawing at each other, making out like a couple of teenagers where the whole world can see. It’s also raining like a mother-fucker and they are just standing there looking like a couple of drowned rats. Dean isn’t even wearing a coat. A car blasts its horn and a gaggle of teenagers are blushing and giggling at them from under a canopy across the street, where they’ve taken shelter from the rain. Some of them are holding up cell phones recording the whole thing for posterity.

“Shit,” Castiel says. He sounds really pissed off and it’s so incongruous with the mood of the scene Dean can’t help laughing as they sheepishly, and grudgingly, detach from one another (to the disappointment of their audience).

Dean swipes a hand through Castiel’s dripping hair and dips his head to whisper, “you think we should move this show inside?” Dean skin prickles with cold as soon as he steps out of Castiel’s orbit, but the flush on Castiel’s cheeks and the fervour in his eyes are enough to keep him warm on the inside. It might be enough to burn him to ashes but he’s willing to take the risk.

The walk back to the shop, up the stairs, and through the apartment is a blur. Their fingers are tangled together and Dean drags a very willing Castiel into his bedroom. He has no memory of when they joined hands, but he aches with want and any skin contact is better than none as far as Dean’s concerned.

“You’re wet,” Castiel says as Dean kicks the door shut with his heel. It’s spoken softly but his voice sounds loud in the quiet. There’s no other noise in the apartment, just the rain hammering on the window like it wants to be let in, and the rough drag of their breath.

Dean hums an agreement and says, “So are you.” Castiel stares at him. Dean stares back. Only their hands are touching and that feels so wrong, there should be a law against it.

“We should probably get out of these clothes then.” The smile on Castiel’s face is small and wicked, his eyes flash fire in the smudged charcoal light of the stormy afternoon, and Dean grins.

They undress each other quickly, ripping away rain-sodden clothes to chase the taste of the damp skin hidden beneath. They only stop to kiss, or to lick away the stray raindrops that drip from their hair to trace paths down their necks, and once more when Castiel huffs a frustrated, “How many layers are you wearing, exactly?” because Dean isn’t getting naked fast enough.

Then they are on the bed. The covers are new and soft, and the sheets whisper softly as their bodies move against them. They explore each other in ebbs and flows, in frenzied passion and rapturous intimacy. It’s unlike anything Dean has ever known. Each touch is magnified. Each kiss carries the weight of a hundred more; kisses that didn’t happen because they’re both fucking idiots, basically. From the utterly wrecked expression on Castiel’s face, Dean can tell he’s not alone in feeling overwhelmed.

Dean straddles Castiel’s thighs. Leans forward to press their chests together, to feel the pounding, thumping, punching of their hearts as they beat together. Castiel’s head is pressed back, chin up, neck exposed and Dean can’t resist the temptation. He bites down into the column of Castiel’s neck, sinking his teeth in and sucking like a vampire until blood rises to the surface, and red roses bloom across his skin. Dean’s never been the jealous or possessive type before, but he feels a proprietary satisfaction in knowing that Castiel will be wearing these marks for a while; in boardrooms, on private jets, at grand old houses; wherever Castiel goes, he’ll carry the evidence of this night with him. He means it as a reminder and an invitation, a way to say _please come back soon_ with a little more permanence than spoken words allow.

Dean lets up as Castiel moans and swallows and tries to roll his hips up, to get some kind of rhythm going, eager to get to the main part of the show. Happy to give Castiel what he wants, Dean leans back and takes them both in hand. Fingers dig into Dean’s hips. They slide up his sides, until Dean’s shivering from it, and they end up tangled in his hair. Castiel leans up on an elbow as he drags Dean down into a hard, demanding kiss, the sort that leaves them both dizzy from lack of oxygen.

The fire is building. It starts in Dean’s toes and chases upwards to his belly. It hisses and sparks like a fuse as it burns up and down his spine, and he’s getting close, so close. But Castiel is panting into his mouth and pulling away to growl, “Not yet. Not yet.” He snatches at Dean’s hands, pushes them away and looks at him with dark hooded eyes. A single lingering kiss is pressed to Dean’s mouth and Castiel turns away. Dean’s just about ready to whine in confusion and distress at the loss of contact, when Castiel turn onto his stomach and Dean catches up with what’s happening.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Good God yes,” Castiel replies, and it’s all desperation and need. “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”

Dean’s stomach does a slow somersault and he has to close his eyes, just breath for a moment, calm down. Staring into the dark behind his eyelids he nods, swallows in a throat gone dry, and says, “Yes.”

He’s right. They waited through insults and lies and misunderstandings and Dean knows now, with a certainty so bright it’s like a light has been switched on in the dark recesses of his brain, that he’s wanted this, wanted Castiel, for so much longer than he realised. It’s not much of a stretch from there to work out that the ferocity of Dean’s anger at Castiel was fed, in no small part, by the strength of the attraction and some mind-boggling feats of denial.

Castiel is responsive under Dean’s hands, demanding and loud, in a way he isn’t anywhere else. His body quakes as Dean opens him up. He clutches at the sheets, twists them in his hands, and muffles the sounds falling from his mouth by pressing his face into a pillow. He wants contact and he asks for it, bold and unabashed; Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s skin, on him, in him, as close and as much as possible.

Dean kisses his way up Castiel’s spine as he slides one arm under Castiel’s to pull him close. Forearm slung across Castiel’s chest, angled up, so Dean’s hand falls over Castiel’s heart. His fingertips brush the base of Castiel’s throat where his pulse flutters and leaps; it’s fast, like an echo of the quick-fire rattle of the rain against the window pane outside. Dean’s other hand curves tight over the top of Castiel’s hip and it steadies them both as he pushes inside, slow, careful, and devastatingly good.

They wait there, locked together and breathing fast at the intensity of being so close. As Castiel relaxes, Dean rolls his hips, cautious at first and taking time to soak in the glorious heat and pressure around him. It’s intoxicating and he feels drunk. There are ridiculous things falling from his mouth and onto Castiel’s skin, but he can’t seem to stop, can’t keep the words locked behind his teeth – he doesn’t even want to.

Castiel is a revelation unfolding in his bed and Dean tries to memorise every millisecond. The way Castiel breathes in and pushes his hips back every time Dean drives forward, picking up the pace. The way he moans and bites down, forcing his teeth into his bottom lip, as Dean get the angle just right. The way he asks for more from Dean and the way he calls out and shakes when he gets it; the way he gropes a hand back to lace their fingers together, before pressing their clasped hands into the bed, like he needs grounding, like they both do.

Sweat replaces rain on their bodies and adds a shine to flushed skin. Dean slips in it as he stretches over Castiel’s back. He can feel the familiar tension building in his body and Castiel is shuddering beneath him, as he moans Dean’s name between ragged bursts of breath. It’s amazing, but Dean wants his hands on Castiel. Dean wants to feel Castiel come apart while he’s still inside him.

In one swift move, Dean hauls Castiel up and onto his knees. Leans up staying pressed close, chest to back, until they’re kneeling up, thighs trembling with the effort. It’s worth it when Castiel gasps at the change of angle and his head rolls back onto Dean’s shoulder as he pushes up into blinding heat.  Castiel’s dick is angry red and neglected as Dean wraps their joined hands around it to squeeze and pull the velvet smooth and searing hot skin, in time with the flex of his hips.  

Castiel scrabbles his free hand up to find Dean’s head. Tightens his fist in Dean’s hair and pulls, hard and painful, and it sends an unexpected shower of tiny sparks across his scalp, down his neck and over his shoulders. Jesus fucking Christ that feels so good he can’t hold in the curses that are crowding his throat.

Castiel tenses suddenly and shouts, “Fuck,” just once before he spills over their hands, over the bed. Dean’s just starting to lose it when Castiel shoves back roughly like he’s trying to push Dean even further inside while his muscles contract. A couple of quick thrusts into near unbearable tightness and that’s all Dean can take. His brain short-circuits as he comes and fireworks flash in the dark behind his eyelids and he has to bite down on Castiel’s shoulder to suppress a yell he can feel building on the back of his tongue (Dean is not a screamer).

The next thing Dean knows, they’re spooning, sprawled across the bed after toppling to one side. They are boneless but still breathing, which Dean thinks is something of a minor miracle because he’s pretty sure he just had a heart attack.

“I’m in love with you as well, you know,” Castiel says into the quiet. It comes out hesitant; as if he isn’t sure he wants Dean to hear it (it’s also a little slurred and fuzzy sounding). He makes a little shrugging movement that isn’t very effective, in his current state of fucked-out laziness, before adding a casual, “In case you were wondering.”

Dean laughs softly and kisses the back of Castiel’s neck. “I’d kind of worked it out already but thanks for saying it. It’s good to know.”

They fall asleep soon after, in a tangle of legs and arms and other body parts, warm and snug in Dean’s new bed, while the storm goes on outside.

 

*** * * * * * ***

 

Dean wakes. Blinks his eyes open but finds it just as dark on the other side of his eyelids. He stares up into the black. Lets his eyes adjust until he can make out vague shapes, light and dark shadows drawn across the room in the weak glow from the streetlight below. He wonders what time it is. Rolls onto his side, searching for the glow of clock by his bed, and ends up nose to nose with Castiel who’s watching him from the other side of the pillow.

“Jesus!” he says, jerking back in surprise.

“Nope,” Castiel replies, as droll as ever. “Did you forget I was here?”

“No.” Dean is stung by the accusation. It takes a second or two and the ghost of a smile for Dean to realise he’s teasing. He retaliates in the best way possible; grapples him under the covers for a few minutes then kisses him, with extra tongue, filthy and deep.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says after a few minutes of silence, where all they do it stare at each other like the complete saps that they are. “I’m not going to have to hire protection against your Aunt Catherine am I? She came to warn me off you know.” He snorts. “That is one scary old lady.”

Castiel has his hand spread out over Dean’s heart and the weight is comforting. “I shouldn’t think so. I had some serious words with her when she told me about her conversation with you.”

“She told you about that?”

“Yes. I don’t think it had quite the effect she was expecting. In fact it gave me hope like I hadn’t had before.”

“Hope for what?”

“Hope that you might still be interested in me, romantically. I know you like honesty and that you like to be upfront about things. I thought that if you still felt as you did that morning at Pemberley, then you would have said it, admitted it outright.”

Dean picks up Castiel’s hand and presses the warm fingertips to his lips, sucks on the end of one for a moment, tasting the faint salt of sweaty skin. “Yep, sounds about right,” he says. “I do feel a bit sorry for Daphne though.” The poor drab girl must have thought she had a handsome husband all wrapped and ready to go if she’d been listening to her mother.

“I don’t see why. She never wanted to marry me either, and anyway it’s too late now, she got married two weeks ago to the man she’s been dating these last three years.”

“What?” Dean grins into the darkness. “How the fuck did she get away with that right under Aunt Catherine’s nose?”

“Well she didn’t have very far to go; he’s the head gardener at Rosings. Well he was. Inias and I are trying to help him find a new position.”

“Shit.”

“Yes it is,” Castiel agrees. “Lady Catherine wasn’t exactly happy, so they’re hiding out at Inias’s place in New York for the time being.”

Dean laughs. “Man, that’s just crazy.”

Castiel rolls on top of him and cards his fingers through Dean’s hair as he looks down at him. A blush rises unexpectedly and he feels a little embarrassed under the intensity of the gaze. “If you like that story,” he says. “I do have another piece of news you might find interesting.”

“Go on then, Cas, what you got for me?”

“Meg and Crowley are engaged.”

“You’re shitting me. Meg, as in Sarah’s sister?” Castiel nods. “How did that even happen? I didn’t know they even knew each other.”

“I don’t think they did until that night at the Meryton Hotel. As I understand it, Meg went back to New York after Sarah asked her to leave, and they bumped into each other at some big social event there. It’s been a whirlwind romance, though I hear they’re a bit of a tempestuous couple, always either fighting or... well, you get the idea.”

Dean makes a grossed out face and says, “God, you rich folk you’re just a load of idiots really aren’t you, just like the rest of us.”

“They do say love makes fools of us all.” Castiel lowers his head to mouth at the bolt of Dean’s jaw. It makes Dean’s eyes roll back and he pushes his hips up to rub against Castiel, as his dick starts to fill and harden again.

“Well in that case...” Dean runs his hands down Castiel’s back, squeezes his ass and gets a hiss for his troubles. “...do you want to fool around?”

Castiel growls against his mouth and Dean feels it all the way down to his toes, oh yeah. They don’t fall sleep again until after Castiel has proved to Dean, in a number of interesting and creative ways, that he can indeed be the toppy bastard Dean always took him for.

The rain clears away overnight. Dark clouds, emptied of their loads, disappear with the dawning of a winter sun. Dean wakes to a room filled with thin yellow light, a slight ache in his muscles (and his ass), and an armful of warm sleep-snuffing Castiel. His brown crows-nest head is sunk deep into the pillow they’re sharing and Dean can’t stop himself from rolling closer, squeezing out any sneaky pockets of air that dare to stop him getting skin on skin, until they are touching top-to-toe. He buries his face in the soft hair and lets it tickle his lips, his nose, his eyelids, before leaning up to press his lips to the smooth patch just behind Castiel’s ear.

A small groan is all the reward he gets for his good works, until Dean slides his hand up, over firm pectorals, and tweaks a nipple.

“If you wanted to wake me up, I can think of better ways to go about it,” Castiel grumbles. A night of fucking has made his voice even lower, dropping from treacle to tar, sticky, slow and black as sin. Dean has no defence against Castiel’s dark arts and enthusiastically joins the party when he rolls his hips back, rubbing his ass against Dean’s increasingly interested dick.

“Uh, Cas, you’re killing me,” Dean groans as his stomach decides to join in the conversation. It’s a noisy guest and one that Dean is pretty sure wasn’t invited.

Castiel takes pity on him and moves away. “When was the last time you ate?” he asks, rolling over to press a hand to Dean’s stomach. His warm fingers tickle as he runs them through the line of hairs that trace a path downwards. Dean squirms. His muscles twitch, and his stomach complains again, too demanding to be ignored. Castiel props himself on one elbow and looks down at him. With one eyebrow raised, he waits for an answer.

“Okay, okay, not since yesterday morning,” Dean confesses. He’d been too busy during the day and then Castiel had turned up, all soggy and delicious looking, and after that, there had been so many more important and downright filthy things to put in his mouth.

Castiel sighs dramatically. “Come on then.” He pulls the sheets away from Dean as he stands, wraps them around himself instead, and stands there in the pale golden light looking like some kind of Greek God. For a little while, all Dean can do is sit there and stare and wonder how, after everything, he got so fucking lucky. It’s crazy really.

Castiel gingerly plucks his discarded shirt from the floor and grimaces at it. It’s damp and wrinkled and crumpled up into a misshapen ball. All their clothes are still wet and Castiel’s probably very expensive suit is no doubt ruined as well.

“Get something out of the dresser and chuck me something too.” Dean points to the drawers and Cas spends a few seconds rummaging about in them under Dean’s direction (it’s a bit like last night, Dean helpfully points out and ends up on the pointed end of a withering look). Eventually Castiel surfaces with some old jogging pants and a t-shirt for Dean. Apparently Castiel is not a fan of underwear and tends to run hot, which equates to being shirtless a lot of the time, and Dean is just fine with that.

Castiel goes to investigate the food situation in the apartment. “We can use the stuff downstairs,” Dean shouts while he attempts to climb into his clothes, on legs still wobbly from the previous night’s exertions.

Castiel is shaking his head at the nutritional desert of Dean’s fridge when he comes back in. “I think that would be best.”

Dean leads the way into the kitchen. He opens the blinds on the small windows set high in the wall to let in the glorious winter sunshine. Castiel trails behind; eyes darting around as he gets his first proper look around the place. He’s smiling. It’s a small thing, just a relaxation of the muscles in his face, a light in his eyes. This is something Dean has already learnt about Castiel; his happiness is a quiet thing, still and easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

“Do you like the shop?” he asks.

“Yes, I do,” Castiel replies.

“Well good,” Dean says and can’t help sounding a little smug. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my silent partner now would I?” Castiel looks up, but Dean just smirks at him. “Cas, why didn’t you tell me about the money yourself?”

He runs a finger along the edge of the shiny metal counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d accept if I came to you directly,” Castiel says. “You haven’t always been open to my... proposals, in the past.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

“And to be honest, I thought you might be too proud to take money from someone like me.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “Too proud?” he chokes out in amazement. “Me?” Pot calling the kettle black, or what?

“Yes.” Castiel is completely serious. “You made it very clear to me, more than once, that you put value in working hard to provide for yourself and your family. And I did try that morning at Pemberley, remember? You reacted very badly but then you’ve always been ready to think the very worst of me, though maybe sometimes I deserved it.”

“Maybe you did,” Dean says. When he sees Castiel’s face pulling into a frown he quickly adds, “And maybe I deserved some of the things you said about me.” Castiel starts to argue that it’s not true but he knocks him off course as he closes in and dips his head to bite at the tender spot where Castiel’s neck meets his shoulder. They stay that way until the coffee machine beeps to tell the two caffeine junkies that their fix is ready.

Castiel starts looking through cupboards like he owns the place, which he kind of does, in a complicated round-about way. Dean warms his hands on his cup of coffee and studies the elegant curve of Castiel’s naked back, while he kneels on the floor, rummaging through cupboards full of tins that come in a multitude of different shapes and sizes. Dean can hear him making comments like “Oh, Bavarian Bundt pan,” and “Croquembouche!” as he performs a happy little inventory. He’s fucking adorable.

It occurs to Dean that the bakery is only a recent ambition of his own, exciting yes, but new and not long held. This place might just be something for Castiel as well, if he could find the time away from the Novak Corporation. He managed it for the Bake-Off; perhaps he could manage it for this as well, and find a fragment of a dream he’d been forced to give up a long time ago. Dean wasn’t planning to do much with the cafe part of the business, but maybe Castiel could help with that; maybe he could come and cook here sometimes; maybe he could help develop new recipes; maybe they could do special events, open in the evenings and... Okay, he might be getting a bit carried away now.

He takes a mouthful of coffee. Tries to calm down and stop the tumble of dreamy notions and fairytale endings that are cascading through his brain. This is real life, he tells himself, not a story. But still, Dean’s heart beats hard at the idea. He has no clue when he turned into such a romantic idiot but it was probably sometime between the second and third orgasm last night (and if that was the price he had to pay, it was totally worth it).

Dean realises he needs to think about something else before he does something really stupid, like get down on his knees and beg Castiel to stay forever. He should probably wait a while before doing that, a couple of weeks at least.

“I heard that Jody won,” Dean says. He pushes a cup of coffee over the metal countertop towards Castiel, who stops his enthusiastic progress through the pots and pans.

He rocks back to sit on his heels and looks at Dean over his shoulder. “Yes, and she’s a deserving winner,” he says. “You should call her. She’d been trying to get in touch with you, but you wouldn’t answer.”

“I will,” Dean replies, and he means it. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s using the prize money to expand the charity she set up. She wants to run some residential cookery courses as a therapeutic thing for people who’ve lost family in violent circumstances, like she has.” Dean had never really talked to Jody about that. He thought it would be too upsetting or too difficult a topic for a friendship built on jokes and gentle teasing. It was strange, but at the same time made perfect sense, that Castiel, with his quiet sympathy and composure, would be able to succeed where Dean had failed. “I offered her the use of Pemberley for the purpose.”

“Huh?”

Castiel stands at the counter looking anxiously at Dean over the rim of the cup, as if he’s worried Dean might not approve. “We have plenty of rooms in the guest annex, and the kitchens are big enough to accommodate groups.” He explains it like he has to justify what he does with his own house. “My sister and I are not there as much as we would like and it would be nice to know the place is being useful to someone while we’re away. It’s such a beautiful place, it should benefit other people, not just me.”

Dean grins his approval. “That’s great, Cas. It’s a really great idea.”

He looks relieved and the next smile Castiel gives includes a flash of white teeth.

“Do you know about any of the others?” Dean asks, unable to stop now he’s let himself think about the show again. “Charlie?”

“I only know what Pam and Jody told me, so I may have it wrong. I think they said that Charlie Bradbury and Andy Gallagher are going into the cake decorating business together. Themed cakes of some sort; I think it had something to do with cartoons. Pam said they were excited because they’d had some interest from some big event out in San Diego next year.”

“You mean comic-con?”

Castiel looks blank. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, good for them,” Dean chuckles. “Now let’s make breakfast.” He bangs his knuckles on the counter to mark his determination, then goes to the refrigerators to collect eggs and bacon. He takes them over to the stove to get started. Castiel sneaks up behind him and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder, so he can watch the proceedings, as Dean twists dials and flames spring into life with a whoosh. The flames leap up tall at first, then fall back, and settle down into a rolling circle of flame, flickering like the corona around the sun.

“You want to make pancakes?” Dean asks, then turns his head to press his lips to the side of Castiel’s smile. “There’s milk and butter in the fridge.” Castiel hums a contented agreement but he doesn’t move. Instead he slips a hand down the back of Dean’s pants to knead at the firm swell of Dean’s ass. “Don’t you ever stop?” Dean teases before jabbing an elbow back to dislodge him. “Now get,” he says. “And wash those molesting hands before you touch any of my stuff.”

Castiel grumbles all the way to the sink.

“You could make some of those almond squares later if you want?” Dean suggests over the sounds of running water and the first spit and hiss of the bacon, as he drops it into the skillet on the stove. “Hey, Cas, did you ever work out why the batch you made that day at Pemberley was so good?” Dean had forgotten about it until that moment. He mentally kicks himself when he remembers the freak out that Castiel had back then over the mystery. He does not want to cause the return of robot Castiel (unless it’s for kinky role-play purposes, then he might be all for it).

Castiel shuts the water off and Dean is relieved to hear him huff out a small laugh. “Not exactly, but I have a theory.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“It was you that gave me the clue actually.”

“Go me,” Dean says sarcastically, “when did I do that?”

“Do you remember when you told me that you bake to make people happy?”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” Castiel says it in a way that brooks no argument so Dean keeps his mouth shut and goes back to scrambling some eggs in a bowl. “And Missouri said something like it too. She said that you put your heart into your cooking. That your talent isn’t in the technique or the details, it’s in the fact that you care that the person you’re making it for enjoys it.”

“Isn’t that kind of the same thing?” Dean pretends he’s busy watching the bacon sizzle in the pan and that the heat in his face is from the flames on the stove, not a blush from Castiel’s words.

“Not at all.” Castiel’s voice goes slightly muffled as he leans into the big refrigerator and rummages about with the same enthusiasm that he attacked the cupboard of cake tins.

“And what’s all that got to do with the almond squares?” Dean asks trying to get Castiel back to the point and away from the flattery that makes Dean’s skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Oh. Sorry, Dean, I thought it was obvious,” Castiel says like the asshole he so frequently is. Dean rolls his eyes. “The difference that morning was that I made them for you.” He says it so simply. Like he doesn’t know Dean’s heart is swelling in his chest to about ten times its normal size. “That was the difference. I wasn’t trying to make them perfect, or the best, or improve them in any way. I didn’t care about any of that. I just cared that you liked them.”

“Hey, you want to make apple pie after breakfast?” Dean says a few seconds later and tries to ignore the crackle in his voice.

“Is that some kind of euphemism or do you really want to make a pie?”

“I really want to make pie and you can help me.” He lights another ring of the stove ready to cook the eggs in another smaller pan. “Hey, Cas, can you pass me the butter,” he asks. There’s a rustle and then it all goes quiet behind him. “It’s on the middle shelf,” he adds helpfully. Still there’s no reply.

He turns around. “Cas, you okay?” Castiel stares at him, framed by the light from the refrigerator; its door is open and forgotten by his side. His eyes are wide and Dean can practically see those damn hearts Jo was telling him about. “Cas, What is it?” he asks softly as he switches off the heat under the pans in case it turns out to be something serious.

Castiel holds out a cloth-wrapped block, slow and shy, like he’s the new kid at school doing show and tell on the very first day. “This is from my farm, Dean. You have my butter,” he says sounding a little choked.

“Well I’m pretty sure it’s my butter now, since I paid for it, so there’s no reason to go calling me a thief,” Dean says (he’s such a comedy genius), “but yeah, I suppose I do. Took a while to find it too, had to get Pam to do a little digging for me from the old ingredient lists on the Bake-Off. But, you know, you were right, it is really good.”

Castiel makes a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat and Dean’s arms are suddenly filled with six foot of half-naked, morning-mussed, Castiel. Dean opens his mouth to say “hey,” or “huh,” or something equally as eloquent, but doesn’t even get as far as that, because there’s a tongue that tastes of coffee getting in the way. The sound Dean does make is more like a squeak, than anything else, but nobody is ever going to know about that.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to manhandle Dean over to the counter. The metal edge presses into his lower back as Castiel pulls at the waistband of Dean’s pants with urgent fingers. He falls to his knees. Dean just has enough time to say, “Fuck, this is unhygienic,” before his eyes roll back and he’s gasping. He holds onto the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip, as he tries to stay on his feet, lost to the sensation of Castiel’s wet coffee-hot mouth around him, sucking and swallowing him down.

The whole breakfast and apple pie operation is put on hold for now, and a lump of organic butter sits forgotten on the counter, where it warms and starts to melt, while the kitchen heats up.

**The End.**


End file.
